


V New Yorku

by eLJay



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff, Foreign Languages, Gen, Light Angst, Meta, Religious Content, collaborative storytelling, headcanons, hope you like long endnotes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-09-19 17:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 145
Words: 257,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eLJay/pseuds/eLJay
Summary: That is, “in New York.”A dime-novel romance–-or rather three.  Featuring Skittery, Tumbler, Snoddy, David, and of course Jack, based on the universe of “Jack Kelly, Cowboy Hero”  (jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com) and presented by the Editor thereof and yours truly.Here you’ll find mostly stories but also meta, headcanons, playlists, a few pictures, and lots and lots of research."Jack Kelly, Cowboy Hero" is a genius blog that follows the newsboys in the years after the strike in 1899.  It’s as if Jack himself is running the blog, sharing pictures that he likes, answering questions (often about horses), and letting his friends tell stories–for better or worse.





	1. An Explanation

This is an attempt to present a story in chronological order using content originally published on Tumblr.  As such, it might be a little messy.

The Editor at "[Jack Kelly, Cowboy Hero](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/)" (aka jackcowboyhero) picked up the story of the newsies not long after the events of the 1992 movie.  Starting in October 2014, the story there has moved in more or less real time; now, in January 2019, it's 1906 for the characters there.  The boys' stories are told really well there, and I've loved reading such a thorough continuation of the story.  If you're at all a fan of the movie I recommend reading "Jack Kelly, Cowboy Hero" from the beginning.  It's well worth your time.

About two years ago I seized upon a single headcanon I read there and sent an ask about it; that led to the formation of an original character.  (I’ve been making up OCs to interact with the newsies in my head since the 1990s, but it took 20 years to let any of them out into the world.)  In the process of researching and writing these things I’ve learned a lot. 

Neither the Editor nor I is fluent in any of the foreign languages used here, so any mistakes are on us.  

I’m grateful to the Editor for inspiring me and working with me on this–follow jackcowboyhero on Tumblr!–and I hope y'all enjoy.

-LJ


	2. Neighbors (23 February 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Skittery, if you speak Czech, does that mean your family emigrated from Bohemia or Moravia at some point?  Mine came over from Slovakia; it would make us almost like neighbors.  Anyway, _prajem Vám veľa zdravia a šťastia (viem, že to je po slovenský, pretože nehovorím po český, ale myslím, že mi rozumiete)_.**

 

A.

Yeah.  I was born in Tábor, which, if ya haven’t heard, got started when some guys decided they were gonna build a perfect city where everyone would be perfect an’ innocent an’ life would be great.  Good idea, right?

I mean, come on.  Even  _Jack’s_ plans are more realistic than that.

My old man was a tailor, and Matka looked out for us kids.  Miloš was born four years after I was, an’ Máša an’ Jonáš, the twins, came two years after that.  Things were okay over there.  I mean, compared to New York, they were pretty good.  Sure, money was tight, an’ the city was crowded, but there’s somethin’ about Bohemian cities that ain’t the same as Manhattan.  You could see trees there, at least.  You could actually walk out of the city an’ look around and not just be surrounded by more buildings.  I mean, Jack ain’t entirely wrong, wantin’ to see somethin’ new.  And at least we all had each other.

But Táta an’ Matka started hearin’ about New York, an’ how everythin’ was great there, and how we’d all have lots o’ opportunity.  Sounds a lot like that utopia Tábor was s’pposed to be, don’t it?  And stuff like that never works out.  Things are never as good as ya think they’ll be.

But back then we didn’t know that.  Táta sold his shop, Matka packed all we owned (all we could carry, at least), and off we went to America!

Well, the ship over shoulda been our first clue things were gonna be bad.  But when we set foot on American soil an’ saw how many people were bustlin’ around, we thought things were okay.  I was only eight, so I thought it was some great big excitin’ adventure.

But you know how that adventure turned out?  Táta found work in a sweatshop, plannin’ to earn enough money to buy a place o’ his own, an’ Matka did piecework when she wasn’t tryin’ to feed us an’ keep our one room in a tenement clean, an’ my brothers an’ sister an’ I went off to school an’ learned English an’ how to play stickball an’ all those other important things New York kids gotta pick up.

‘Til Matka got sick.  An’ then she died, an’ Táta didn’t make money like the sweatshop guy said he would, an’ we barely scraped by, ‘til the day Táta didn’t come home.  He’d been hit by a runaway carriage horse.

They found me an’ the kids two days later an’ put us into an orphanage.  I was ten.

So, lookin’ back on it, we mighta been better off stayin’ in Tábor.

Ale děkuji vám.  To je dobré slyšet slova jako to znovu, a já doufám, že váš příběh je šťastnější než tenhle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prajem Vám veľa zdravia a šťastia (viem, že to je po slovenský, pretože nehovorím po český, ale myslím, že mi rozumiete) = I wish you good health and much happiness (I know that this is in Slovak, because I don't speak Czech, but I hope that you'll understand me)
> 
> Ale děkuji vám.  To je dobré slyšet slova jako to znovu, a já doufám, že váš příběh je šťastnější než tenhle = But thank you. It's good to hear words like this again, and I hope your story is happier than this one.


	3. Meet Hana (23 February 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**For what it's worth, I admire your perseverance.  Thank you for answering my question--especially since it was awfully rude of me to ask when I hadn't even introduced myself.  So: my name's Hana. _Teší ma._**

 

A.

Ahoj, Hana.  Don’t worry about it–’round here lots o’ folks don’t introduce themselves at all, they just run smack into a fella an’ wind up bein’ great friends.  (You think David an’ Jack were the only ones to meet that way?  New York’s got an awful lot o’ kids who don’t look where they’re goin’.  –On the other hand, sometimes when ya don’t look, ya get killed by a carriage horse.)

So, I didn’t take it personal.  Actually, if you want the truth, it’s kinda nice gettin’ questions once in a while.  Usually people just wanna know about Jack (or he steals the questions before we even see ‘em), an’ all folks want pictures of is Spot Conlon.  You know who I think’s sendin’ in most o’ those questions?  Spot Conlon himself.  (Just, you don’t have to tell him I said that.)

If you want some more truth, my name’s Roman.  None o’ the boys pay attention to real names anymore, but they don’t got names like “Skittery” back in the old country.

And, um…thanks.  That means kind o’ a lot to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teší ma = Pleased to meet you
> 
> Ahoj = Hi


	4. Name Day (23 Febuary 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Roman? Then (by the Slovak calendar) today is your name day. _Všetko najlepšie k meninám!_**

 

A.

Děkuji!  You learn somethin’ new every day, ‘cause I didn’t know you guys were different–in the Czech calendar it’s not ‘til August ninth.  (But I ain’t gonna turn down havin’ one today, too, so thanks for sayin’ so.  There ain’t a lot o’ folks here who set any store by name days.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Všetko najlepšie k meninám! = All the best on your name day
> 
> Děkuji! = Thank you


	5. Interested (7 March 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**_Dobrý deň,_ Roman (or maybe you prefer Skittery?).  I was wondering if your parents decided to change your family name when you got here.  Ours is the same as before we left--well, almost; it still sounds strange to be called Hana Kollár instead of Kollárová.  But our friends the Mlynáriks changed theirs entirely, to Miller, since it means the same and is easier for Americans to pronounce.  I'm sorry if I'm asking too many personal questions, but I'm interested...I mean, um, just curious.  That's all.**

 

A.

SKITTERY: Ahoj Hana,

I don’t care which name you use.  When I first started sellin’ papes I used to get pretty mad when the boys called me Skittery, but then I got so used to it that when I moved on an’ folks started callin’ me Roman again, I wouldn’t always pay attention.  (Then they’d get mad, and I’d jump and that’s how I got the name Skitts in the first place.)  But you can call me whatever ya want to.

My folks didn’t change our name, but it ain’t too hard for most Americans–Kučera.  I mean, most times people spell it Kucera or Kuchera here, but that’s okay.  Maybe if we were somethin’ like Nejezchleba or Rádsetoulal, Táta would’ve changed it.  Most Americans ain’t real good with a million syllables or “z”s or “j”s in the middle o’ words like that, and maybe it’s better to have somethin’ simple for people to call ya instead o’ hearin’ your name get butchered every time somebody says it.  But I think it’d be strange to be called somethin’ else.  I mean, I know America’s s’pposed to be a new start and all that…but I ain’t sure I’d want to get rid of my own name.

–Not that Skittery’s my own, but it feels like it is, by now.

And it’s okay–I don’t mind answerin’ your questions.

TUMBLER: D’you know Skitts turns bright red when he reads ‘em?

SKITTERY: I do not!

TUMBLER: Yeah you do!  You’re red right now!

SKITTERY: It’s a sunburn, okay?!

TUMBLER: But it’s cloudy!

SKITTERY: Windburn.

TUMBLER: You work inside.

SKITTERY: I gotta  _get_ to Tibby’s somehow, don’t I?

TUMBLER: An’ anyway, what’s this ‘Hana’ mean by ‘ _interested_ ’?!

SKITTERY: She just wants to talk about names, all right?!

TUMBLER: I don’t think so.  I think she–mmph!

SKITTERY: Hano, děkuji za vaše otázky a prosím ignorovat mého malého bratra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobrý deň = good day, hello
> 
> Hano, děkuji za vaše otázky a prosím ignorovat mého malého bratra = Hana, thank you for your question and please ignore my little brother


	6. Red (14 March 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Hello, Tumbler, this is Hana.  It's nice to meet you.  I know I probably seem nosy, asking Roman all of these questions; it's just nice to find someone that you have things in common with.  He understands what it's like, and that makes me feel a little less lonely.  I hope he feels the same way.  Even if he doesn't, it's sweet of him to answer. You're lucky to have a brother who cares so much about you, and he's lucky to have you, too.**

 

A.

TUMBLER: I guess.  But Skitts has lots in common with me too, an’ he doesn’t turn red every time I ask him a question.  Also, I don’t call him Roman.  I just call him Skittery.

SKITTERY: That’s ‘cause you ain’t from Europe.  People use different names there.

TUMBLER: Yeah.  I’m from right here in Manhattan.

SKITTERY: [I thought you came from Wells-Fargo](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/112563440707/where-babies-come-from).

TUMBLER: Yeah, but it was a Wells-Fargo here.  Did they have Wells-Fargo where you’re from?

SKITTERY: No.

TUMBLER: Then how’d you get here?

SKITTERY: A stork brought me.

TUMBLER: Did a stork bring Hana too?

SKITTERY: …Uh…I don’t know.  Sometimes girls come from crows instead o’ storks.

TUMBLER: Well, I guess I was wrong.

SKITTERY: Wrong about what?

TUMBLER: You  _do_  turn red when I ask ya a question.


	7. Cute (18 April 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Oh, Roman, I hope I haven't embarrassed you!  I promise I wasn't trying to. _Ale ste roztomilí--um, vy dve, to znamená, samozrejme._**

 

A.

SKITTERY: ‘Course ya didn’t.

TUMBLER: I dunno, Skitts, [you’re still awful red](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/158132284392/dobr%C3%BD-de%C5%88-roman-or-maybe-you-prefer-skittery).

SKITTERY: You need your eyes checked.  I’m fine.

TUMBLER: So you’re not embarrassed that Hana said you’re cute?

SKITTERY: Why would I be em–hang on, how’d you know what she said?!

TUMBLER: You left this note lyin’ around for too long.  I got it Translated.

SKITTERY: Well, ya translated it wrong.  She said  _you_  were cute.

TUMBLER: Are you tellin’ me Mrs. Procházka‘s a liar?!  ‘Cause if you are, she won’t sell ya those [buckty things](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.russianseason.net%2Findex.php%2F2009%2F08%2Fparene-buchty-a-recipe-from-slovakia%2F&t=YTA4ZjVkYmMyNmIyNDEyYWQ4YmUwZTBkYzdlYjg1MGQyNTNjMzRkZSxxZTdvS2ZBSA%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159722132722%2Foh-roman-i-hope-i-havent-embarrassed-you-i&m=1) anymore.

SKITTERY: No!  I just–

TUMBLER: Now you’re even  _more_  red.

SKITTERY: Just wait ‘til you get a girl, Tumbs.  I’m gonna ask ya all sorts o’ embarrassin’ questions.

TUMBLER: So ya  _are_  embarrassed!

SKITTERY: Not by her, by you.

TUMBLER: Are you sayin’ she’s your girl?

SKITTERY: Well, I don’t got a chance with you hangin’ around, do I?

TUMBLER: If I went away you’d be too embarrassed to talk to her.  At least if you’re yellin’ at me it proves ya  _can_.

SKITTERY: Maybe girls don’t like fellas that holler at their brothers, have ya thought about that one?

TUMBLER: Yeah, so you better stop hollerin’.

SKITTERY: …

TUMBLER: Mrs. Procházka says if you bring Hana to her restaurant she’ll give ya some o’ those fruit things for free.

SKITTERY:  _What?!_

TUMBLER: Do I hafta do  _all_ the work around here?!  Just ask her!

SKITTERY: Tumbs–

TUMBLER: Chicken.

SKITTERY: Hana, byste chtěli získat dezert někdy? –I znamenat, jen aby můj malý bratr přestat mluvit o tom. 

TUMBLER: See?  Was that so hard?

SKITTERY: You don’t know what I said.

TUMBLER: So?  I’m a good guesser.

SKITTERY: You’re good at gettin’ in other guys’ business.

TUMBLER: Yeah, I  _am_ pretty good at that, ain’t I?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ale ste roztomilí--um, vy dve, to znamená, samozrejme = But you're cute--um, you two, that is, of course
> 
> byste chtěli získat dezert někdy? –I znamenat, jen aby můj malý bratr přestat mluvit o tom = would you like to get dessert sometimes? -I mean, just so my little brother will stop talking about it


	8. Mrs. Procházka's (21 April 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**If it would make your brother happy, I guess I have to say yes. I just hope you won't be too disappointed when we meet.  Oh!  Do you think Mrs. Procházka will have any _jablčník?_ It's always been my favorite.  We had apple trees back home and I think they may be what I miss most--the apple trees, and the stars.**

 

A.

SKITTERY: Děkuji, Hana.  This means a lot to–uh, Tumbler.  He’s been askin’ an awful lot about you, ya know.

TUMBLER: I asked when you’re gettin’ married!

SKITTERY:  _Tumbs!_

TUMBLER: What?  I  _did_!

SKITTERY: And I told ya not to be stupid, remember?

TUMBLER: I’m just  _sayin'_.

SKITTERY: Listen, just–ignore Tumbler, all right?  It’s a good place.  She’s got every kind of food you could hope for, just like…ya know.  Bein’ back there again.

TUMBLER: Back at her restaurant?

SKITTERY:  _No_.  Back home.

TUMBLER: Mrs. Hall don’t make buckty.

SKITTERY: You don’t make talkin’ to Hana easy, you know that?

TUMBLER: I’m the reason she’s goin’ to eat with ya, remember?   _To make your brother happy._

SKITTERY: Yeah, yeah.  Anyway, she’s got jablčník and žemľovka and all kinds o’ desserts.  She likes bakin’ more than cookin’, but she’s good at both.

TUMBLER: Did you have apple trees where ya used to live, Skitts?

SKITTERY: Nah, we lived in the city.  But we could see the stars pretty good at night.   …I mean, sometimes I’ll climb up on the hills in Central Park an’ see the buildin’s mixed in with the trees and it looks like Tábor for a minute, but Manhattan’ll never have stars as good as they used to be.

…But, uh…maybe you’d like to come with me sometime.

TUMBLER: I go with ya all the time, Skitts.

SKITTERY: Yeah, I know.  I was talkin’ to Hana.

TUMBLER: Oh.   _Ohhhhhh_.  Boy, you really are sweet on her, ain’t ya?

SKITTERY:  _Tumbs!_   –Je mi opravdu líto, Hane. Neví, o čem to mluví. 

…Uvidíme se tam asi sedm hodin, dobře? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jablčník = apple cake
> 
> Děkuji = Thank you
> 
> buchty = sweet rolls usually filled with jam
> 
> žemľovka = a sweet bread pudding
> 
> Je mi opravdu líto, Hane. Neví, o čem to mluví. …Uvidíme se tam asi sedm hodin, dobře? = I'm really sorry, Hana. He doesn't know what he's talking about. ... I'll see you around seven o'clock, alright?


	9. Priatelia a rodina (22 April 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friends and Family"

It never seemed quite fair to mention parents around people who [had none](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/157613093922/skittery-if-you-speak-czech-does-that-mean-your), let alone to show them off.  But hers had been rather curious about how she’d found [Pani](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2Fpani&t=NmJlZTJjYTc1ZTA3MzMxZGU0NTM1OWIyMDkwODdhZGY4MzU0M2Q4OCxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1) [Procházka](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/159722132722/oh-roman-i-hope-i-havent-embarrassed-you-i) who made the excellent [ _makovník_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.slovakcooking.com%2F2009%2Frecipes%2Fmakovnik-orechovnik%2F&t=ODk2YjMyMzA2MjcyZTE1OTVkMGU5NjQ3ZTBmZTliMTU4ZmYxYzM1NyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1), and apparently her face had gone a bit red when she mentioned her new friends, because Mama had suggested that she invite them over for dinner.

It hadn’t been easy.  First she’d had to ask a newsie how to find the restaurant[where Roman worked](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/100650059042/meet-me-pals-skittery); it was made all the worse by her tongue tripping over the name “Skittery,” and she resolved to practice until it came more easily.  The curly-haired boy had pointed it out with a sly expression, and she’d felt obliged to buy a newspaper from him once he had.  She stood outside Tibby’s for a few minutes, hands fidgeting with the paper as she worked up the courage to go in.  It didn’t help that the restaurant’s windows reflected her face back at her, seemingly plainer than usual.  Eventually she smoothed her hair down, patted her skirt, and opened the door. 

“Table for one, miss?” asked a mustachioed man.

“No, thank you, I am looking for—”

“Hey, Hana.”  He appeared beside the first man and gave him a nod; the man’s eyebrows raised but he shuffled off, muttering “Make it fast” and leaving them standing there.  His smile was warm, his eyes curious.  Would she ever be able to face him without blushing?

“Hello, [Roman](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/157633032537/for-what-its-worth-i-admire-your-perseverance).”  

“You here for something to eat?  I can recommend the liverwurst sandwich today if you are.”  He flipped the rag in his hand onto his shoulder and crossed his arms loosely over his stomach, looking at ease in a way she both admired and envied.

“No, thank you,” she said again, falling back upon the polite phrase to give her time to collect herself.  “I—” _[Som tu pre](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2Fsom%2520tu%2520pre&t=MTg3YWQ0MjM2Njg5NTY0ZDIzZDMzOTE5NWNlYTgzMWQwNGIyM2JkMyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1)_, she began to think, and then chided herself,  _English!_   “—I am here to ask if you and Tumbler would come to dinner at our house.”

She hadn’t known what to expect, but surprise hadn’t been it.  His arms dropped to his sides and his eyes widened.  “Really?”

Hana nodded.  “My parents want to meet my friends.”  The word didn’t seem quite right, but she couldn’t think of any better, in any language.  She felt her cheeks warm again and had to look away.

“Friends, huh?”  His tone was dry, and when her eyes shot up, his face was unreadable.

Oh, no.  What if she’d been wrong?  Her hands wrinkled the paper she held.  “We are friends, yes?” she asked, voice barely audible above the clatter of cutlery.

“’Course,” he said immediately.  “And sure, we’ll come.  It’s…it’s real nice of your folks to ask us.”  Now he looked almost shy.

In spite of their mutual awkwardness they managed to arrange the details, and Roman promised he’d have Tumbler all cleaned up and on his best behavior (“Well…cleaned up, at least.  I can’t make any promises ’bout how he’ll act.”).  She left Tibby’s feeling lighter than when she’d entered.  

* * *

 The apartment had never been tidier, of that she felt sure, having swept and scrubbed and dusted most of it herself.  The pale, domed [ _knedľa_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.slovakcooking.com%2F2009%2Frecipes%2Fsteamed-dumpling-parena-knedla%2F&t=MzQzZWU1NjU4MDRkNDFkNGViMmQyMWE2NTc4NTExMmI1ZmU3NzQ0NyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1) was steaming, and the smell of simmering [pork and sauerkraut](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.slovakcooking.com%2F2009%2Frecipes%2Fsegedinsky-gulas%2F&t=ZWQwYWQ3MTU5NWFmMTBiYTZhYWUxYzQ2ODUzMTUzMTI3N2QwNzgzMixPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1) filled the kitchen.  She hoped they liked it; she hoped Mama felt it worth the cost of the extra meat.  When she’d brought up the latter her mother had said briskly “Hospitality costs nothing” before giving her a reassuring smile.

Just as the bells in the nearby church stopped tolling six there was an enthusiastic knock on the door.  Her parents looked on expectantly as she rushed to open it.

“Hi, Hana!”  Tumbler was certainly clean, his face fairly shining.  It looked as though there had been an attempt to comb his hair neatly, but it seemed the style had not survived the journey; Hana giggled at the sight.  But then she raised her eyes to the older brother and her breath caught, for standing outside her apartment Roman now looked taller and more handsome than ever.  Wordlessly she opened the door wider and stood aside to allow them in.

The introductions went as well as they could have; Tumbler reluctantly answered to the name of [Andy](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/101101640502/my-brother-cowboy-by-tumbler), and Roman lit up at Tatko’s “[ _Vitajte_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2Fvitajte&t=NTZmODhhYTJiODE2YmViMTFmOGJkZDJlZTNkYTE1NjU5MmU4NzVhNyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1).”  Tumbler studied the room with wide eyes, seeming content to let the conversation flow—or falter—without him.  Roman was kept busy answering her parents’ questions, sometimes with translation from Hana, and watching his brother.

When Mama stood to fetch dinner, she went too.  Mama was cutting the  _knedľa_ ; the slices of dumpling loaf would soak up the fragrant sauce, and Hana’s mouth started to water in anticipation.  Her mother glanced over her shoulder at the men around the table, then sideways at her daughter, and whispered in Slovak, “He is handsome.”

Hana’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.  Indecision kept her speechless as much as shock: she couldn’t deny it, but maybe she ought to, to her mother at least, who shouldn’t have been saying such things, should she, as a married woman?  Mama’s eyes twinkled as she deposited the platter of  _knedľa_  in Hana’s arms.  “Take that to the table.”

As she set the platter on the table and resumed her seat, her father left his and made for the kitchen.  For a horrible moment she was sure that her parents were going to start gossiping.  Fortunately, Tatko’s purpose became clear when he called, “ _Hanka,[kde su poháriky](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2Fkde%2520su%2520poh%25C3%25A1riky&t=MjRlNDc2Njg4MjZiNDM4NjM2N2RhNTE3YzNkNjU2NzQ2MWIyNWUwMSxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1)?_”

“In the cabinet.”

“Hanka?” Tumbler asked with narrowed eyes.  She peeked at Roman; a slow smile was growing on his face, tinged with something like recognition.

“Yes.  It is…how do you say?—[ _prezývka_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2Fprez%25C3%25BDvka&t=YmI1MjFhZjI1MjJkYjNlOWQ0OWIxZjA4ZDdlN2Y2ZDY4ZmQyMjI2ZixPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1), for Hana.”

Roman chewed at his lip, thinking, while she tried her very best not to stare at his mouth.  Then he shrugged.  “I don’t know that one, sorry.  But we’d just call it a nickname.  Like Skittery is my nickname, and Tumbler’s his.”  He nodded at the other boy.

Tumbler perked up at that.  “You mean you’ve had a nickname this whole time and didn’t tell us?”

“Sorry?”  She wasn’t terribly, though; it had never been her favorite thing to be called.

“This whole time,” he repeated, shaking his head.  Roman grinned.

Tatko returned, an unlabeled bottle in one hand and tiny glasses in the other.  “What is it?” Tumbler wondered aloud as Tatko filled two glasses.  The air above them appeared to waver.

“[ _Slivovica_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSlivovitz&t=ZGFhZjcxZTBiMmNjMzQ5YzIwMTExZDA2MjY0MmEzYzI4MmQ2MTgyOSxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1).  Alcohol from  _slivky_ , eh, plums.”  He poured a bit of the clear liquid into the third glass, filling it barely halfway.  One of the full glasses he handed to Roman; the half-filled one he gave to Tumbler.  Then he picked up the remaining one and held it out.  “ _Na zdravie_.”

“ _Na zdraví_ ,” Roman replied, clinking his glass against Tatko’s, looking him straight in the eye.  

“To your health,” Tumbler said, though whether he’d guessed that was what the toast meant or was just repeating something he’d heard before, she didn’t know.

Tatko knocked his shot back in one smooth motion.  Before he drank Roman’s eyes slid to her and he lifted the glass a fraction in salute, and even without the drink she felt warmed through.

Tumbler, on the other hand, took a surreptitious sniff of his glass.  Remembering her early sips of the liquor, Hana wondered if she ought to warn him of the taste or the strength.  He was a boy, though, and not a sheltered one, and probably wouldn’t thank her for it.  So she watched as he lifted the glass to his lips, tilted it back, and sputtered at the raw burn.  Tatko chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder; Roman smirked and asked him if he was all right; and Mama, eyes rolling, set a glass of milk in front of Tumbler.  He snatched it up and drank greedily as she placed the pork on the table and settled herself in her seat.

Tatko mumbled a prayer and the family crossed themselves.  “[ _Dobrú chu_ _ť_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2FDobr%25C3%25BA%2520chu%25C5%25A5&t=NGEwM2Q3N2JkMTlkMmMyYWZmYjk0ZDYzNDJjNjYxZjIxNDQ3MTNkMixPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1),” Mama said, and everyone but Tumbler echoed it back.  Then it was quiet but for the sounds of eating.  Any worries she’d had about the boys liking the food had been unfounded; they ate heartily, though not so much that anyone would wonder when the last time they’d had a good meal was.  It was an odd meal—not bad, but strange; everyone seemed glad for the excuse not to talk, and as much as she may have wanted to watch Roman, she knew that her parents were watching her, and him, though who he was watching or wanting to watch she didn’t know.  Only Tumbler seemed oblivious, happily accepting the second helping Mama offered.

“That was real good,” Tumbler said as she and Hana cleared the plates away.

“It sure was.  I haven’t had [ _knedlík_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2Fsearch%3Fq%3Dknedlik%26source%3Dlnms%26tbm%3Disch%26sa%3DX%26ved%3D0ahUKEwjw4-C3prbTAhWJ7iYKHcRBCuIQ_AUICCgB%26biw%3D1467%26bih%3D701&t=ZWI0MWVmZjIyNzUzMmI0NzdhYzczOWE0Nzk4Yzk4MjIxZjI1Zjg2YSxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1) since…”  Roman paused, suddenly distant; when Tumbler put a hand on his arm he came back to himself, and smiled wanly.  “Well, it’s been a long time.”

Mama brought out some cookies she’d made and another glass of milk for Tumbler, and Tatko asked Roman about where he lived, and where he worked, and, when he heard about the restaurant, if the food there was as good as Mama’s.  Roman laughed.  “’Course not!  They can’t afford cooks as good as Mrs. Kollár.”

“Is Hana a good cook, too?” Tumbler asked.  Hana thought his expression was [a little too innocent](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/114814220032/am-i-late-to-the-party-paris-and-toronto-hides); Roman seemed to agree, if the glare he shot his way was any indication.

“Yes, good,” Mama said proudly.

“Not  _that_  good,” she demurred, carefully not looking at either boy.  “Not as good as you, Mama.”

“Our mamas are always best cooks,” Tatko opined.  From the corner of her eye she saw Roman nod a little, and her heart ached.

Not too long later Tumbler, belly full of food and  _slivovica_ , began to yawn.  “I’d better get the kid back soon,” Roman said, “before I have to carry him the whole way.”  The way he smiled when he said it made it seem like he wouldn’t mind all that much.

They trooped to the door, where a nudge from Roman prompted Tumbler to recite, “Thank you for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Kollár.”  Then he looked up at her and grinned.  “And Hanka.”  Still awake enough to be a pest, then.  She stuck out her tongue.

“[ _D_ _ěkuji v_ _á_ _m_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23auto%2Fen%2Fdekuji%2520vam&t=OWFkMjdlNGFjNzQ5M2Q2ZTgwNGQyYjQ2ZjIyMmMwZWE5NWMyNmI1NyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1),” Roman said to her parents, shaking her father’s hand.  Mama’s expression was soft; Hana wondered if she was missing Jozef—though Roman wasn’t much like her older brother, except in age.  Whatever the case Mama told Roman that he was welcome, and she and Tatko wished the boys good night.  Then they withdrew, leaving Hana to open the door.

Roman propelled Tumbler gently into the hallway, where he slumped against the opposite wall.  After a look to make sure Tumbler wouldn’t get into any trouble, Roman turned back to face her.

“He gave me a drink.  That seems like a good sign, huh?”

She nodded.  “Was everything good?  I mean…”  She gestured vaguely toward the interior of the apartment, trying to encompass the whole evening, not just the food.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.  “It was.  Your parents…  They must care about you an awful lot, to invite two strangers to dinner.”

She shook her head.  “You are not strangers.  You are—we are—”

“Friends?”  His eyes were dark, and his voice was low, and it may have been just a trick of the light but it seemed like he was leaning closer…

“C’mon, Skitts,” Tumbler protested sleepily, rubbing at his eyes.  Roman winced, and sighed, and definitely straightened up a bit.

When she could breathe again she smiled.  “[ _Dobrú noc_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftranslate.google.com%2F%3Fhl%3Den%26tab%3DwT%23sk%2Fen%2FDobr%25C3%25BA%2520noc&t=MjRkNDgwNDQwMWVmNjcxNTdkYjRlYTUwNjEwYjUyMGY5MjJjZTU2YyxPTGgxdjZXaQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F159877720355%2Fpriatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to&m=1), Skittery.”  It already sounded better to her, less awkward than those days ago.

“Good night, Hanka.”

Maybe she didn’t mind it so much after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: THE LATEST IN THE SKITTS-AND-HANA (and Tumbler) SAGA


	10. Geography (23 April 1904)

On Tuesdays and Thursdays (and Saturdays if they were having guests for dinner) Hana cleaned Mr. and Mrs. Roth’s house.  It was fairly easy work; they had no children, just Mr. Roth’s aging mastiff, and neither spouse seemed by nature particularly untidy, or even creative enough to cause much mess.  So she dusted the knickknacks and polished the furniture and mopped the floors and stayed out of the kitchen because the cook was as temperamental and territorial as a cockerel.

As always there were papers strewn across Mr. Roth’s desk in the study, and books left open by the armchair; those remained as they lay.  But one of the etched glasses by the bottle of brandy needed washing, and Caesar had left a puddle of drool to be blotted from one of the thick patterned rugs.  Then she whisked cobwebs from the corners of the bookshelves and wound the longcase clock.  As she gazed around the room, looking for anything else that might need to be cleaned, her eyes fell on the globe that sat near Mr. Roth’s desk chair, and she drifted toward it.

The seas were pale blue and the countries pink and green and beige and orange, all smattered with letters and crisscrossed with lines.  She took careful note of how it was aligned: there, stretching out wide and full across the continent, looking now as if it were truly the center of the world, was the United States.  Its eastern coast was so crowded with names that the little splinter of land that was Manhattan was too small even to be shown.  It was hard to believe such a tiny island could feel so big, and be home to so many people.

Further to the west somewhere was Pittsburgh, in Pennsylvania, where Jozef had settled and found a wife.  His Zuzana, with her high cheekbones, masses of auburn hair, and clear grey eyes, was a true beauty; hers were the kind of striking looks a younger Hana had more than occasionally wished to have.  Zuzana was pregnant now, and in his letters Jozef overflowed with pride—especially in the fact that the baby would be born in America.  He’d joked about giving the child a really American name, suggesting they not be surprised if he or she were christened Abraham Lincoln or Betsy Ross Kollár.  Hana didn’t know who Betsy Ross was, but she knew her brother’s sense of humor well enough to be sure that the baby would end up with a fine, upstanding name, one that would make her parents proud.

With a delicate touch she spun the globe.  The ocean they had spent a week in crossing was barely more than the span of her hand.  First they had traveled by wagon and train to Hamburg, and then sailed to Southampton.  From there the ship had steamed on across the Atlantic, the waves calmer than she’d feared, the smell of salt water fresh and cool.  Their quarters had been tight; she remembered well the din of many different voices, Dutch and Irish and English and Austrian, a rough sea of shouts and laughter and an infant’s wordless wail.  But every night ended with Mama’s “ _Sladk_ _é sny_ ” and Tatko’s recitation of the  _Ot_ _čen_ _áš,_  just as ever before.

And there, miles from any sea, nestled in the heart of the Old World, was home.  Unmarked though it was on the globe, she knew that Bratislava was on the Dunaj—the Danube, here—between Vienna and Budapest.  Hidden beneath the letters naming those two grand cities were the smaller places she’d known as a child: the old castle ruin, the house she’d been born in, the stream and the woods and the hills.  The map showed it pale as antique lace, but home had been a kaleidoscope of colors.  When she closed her eyes and pictured it it was green, a hundred shades in leaf and blade that ripened to gold in summer and turned russet when autumn came.

She made to reposition the globe when a thought gave her pause, her hand hovering above its surface.  Somewhere, within a fingertip’s width of where she was from, was Tábor.  What a wonder that was.  Hana could have lived her whole life in Revúca, married a boy she’d grown up with and been buried in the churchyard near her great-grandparents.  Instead she had come to America, to a city so crowded with people that buildings near burst with them, that the streets swelled; and among those masses, thousands of miles from where they’d each started, she’d found…someone.  A friend, at the least—and a friend was nothing to take for granted.  But if they could be something other than friends, something deeper, something more than two points on a map brought closer together…  What a wonder that would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sladké sny = sweet dreams
> 
> Otčenáš = Our Father, the Lord's Prayer


	11. A Walk in the Park (5 May 1904)

“Oh, Hana!”  Pauline Hermann waved cheerily, and hurried across the street as Hana descended the steps of their building.  “Don’t you look sweet!  Are you going out somewhere?”

Pauline was seventeen years old and one of the most sociable beings Hana had ever known.  She seemed genuinely impressed with Hana’s outfit, a reaction that brought both satisfaction and relief; Pauline always took great pains with her own appearance and if she thought Hana looked well then she really must have.  It was only her best shirtwaist and a light blue skirt, but even Hana knew that the colors suited her.  It would have been quicker to head straight to the park after work, rather than going all the way home to change; but she couldn’t bear the idea of Roman seeing her in the drab dress she wore to clean houses. 

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.  “Yes, I’m going for a walk.”

“Looking like that?  Lucky fellow!” Pauline teased.  At Hana’s flustered look her eyes widened, and then her expression grew kind, though she couldn’t know the extent of Hana’s inexperience.  When they’d left Revúca Hana hadn’t yet been old enough for courting, and since they’d arrived in New York she hadn’t met anyone interesting.  Though she had friends, from when she’d helped with the sewing and from church, and the latter group included a few unmarried young men, none of them had caught her eye.  She’d never been concerned about it before, but now Hana thought it might be nice to have an idea what to expect when you were walking out with someone.  

Pauline, on the other hand, was always flitting in and out of the building with friends both male and female.  Now she took Hana’s arm gently.  “Don’t worry, dear,” she said, “you’ll be fine.  Anyone you choose to befriend is sure to be just as good-natured and trustworthy as you are.”  There was truth to that; Hana was less convinced of the veracity of Pauline’s next words.  “A young man would have to be exceptionally dimwitted not to be fond of you.  And that young man leaving your family’s apartment the other week hardly looked dimwitted.”  Pauline grinned conspiratorially and squeezed her arm; Hana didn’t bother trying to make an excuse.  It would have been a greater surprise if one of their neighbors  _hadn’t_  noted Roman and Tumbler’s visit, though no one else had remarked on it—at least not to her.  Besides, anything she admitted now would likely be known throughout the building before she returned from the walk, because Mrs. Hermann was even chattier than her daughter.

“But if it turns out he  _is_  that dumb and tries anything he oughtn’t,” Pauline added, “then just give him a poke with a hatpin.”  Her tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, and Hana, startled, chuckled.  But Pauline had already let her go to pull a pin from her own hat; she stuck it through the sash at Hana’s right hip, where it awaited service like a tiny rapier.  “There.”  Hands on her waist, she surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction.  And while Hana knew that Roman wouldn’t need to be stabbed, she couldn’t help but feel bolstered by the pin, if only as a reminder of Pauline’s support.

The younger girl waved off her thanks cheerily and skipped up the steps to the front door.  “Have a good time!” she called, and Hana set off with greater confidence than she’d had before.

* * *

He whipped off his cap when she approached, sending her a smile and a “ _Dobrý večer_.”  Something surged inside her whenever she understood his Czech, or recognized something he described.  Part of her thought the reaction was silly; a larger part hoped he felt the same way.

“Good evening.” 

“How are ya?”

“Good.  And you?”

“Fine.”

In the ensuing pause she twisted her hands together in front of her while he rubbed the back of his neck.  Their silence was enough to let doubt creep in: what if they had nothing to talk about?  What if their only connection was in the past, and far away?  Her heart plummeted toward the pavement at her feet, which was suddenly fascinating. 

But that let her see his shoes move toward her.  “You look nice,” he said, quiet but sincere.  Head still bent down she couldn’t help but smile, and peeked up through her lashes at him.  Given time, she reckoned she could work out what his expression meant: the spark in his eyes, the tilt of his mouth.  Just a little time, she thought, as he reached out and gently lifted her chin.  His thumb stroked up her jaw; Hana’s lips parted as her breath grew short.

All too soon his hand dropped away.  “That’s better,” he said, a new rasp to his voice, and this smile needed no deciphering.  “Now let’s go.”

The pavement soon became a pebbled path, and a leafy canopy spread overhead, filtering the late-afternoon sun.  The sounds of the streets faded, replaced by murmurs of conversation and snippets of birdsong.  He led her past a pond where ducks paddled lazily and toward a grey mound of stone.  It was no problem to scramble to the top, particularly not after he took her hand to help her up—though once again he let go before she was ready.  

Before them was an open space of well-kept grass; a pair of children chased each other across it.  All around, past the clearing and behind the rocks, grew more trees than she’d seen since coming to America, forming a barrier between the park and the rest of New York.  They couldn’t entirely obscure the city, though; as he’d said, roofs and spires rose beyond the treetops.  It was a little like walking homeward through the wood, knowing you were close when the steeple appeared above the highest branches.  But this was a wood within the city, hemmed in by streets and avenues, unlike the wild, familiar places she’d known before.  “It’s probably not like what you remember…”

“It isn’t, and it is.”  He watched her, his head cocked slightly, awaiting elaboration.  There was too much for her to hope to explain, especially in English; but she’d have to try, and trust in his patience.  For one thing, the view was different because the trees were different, so she began, “I don’t know this kind of trees.”

“I don’t know any kind of trees,” he cut in with a grin.  “I’m a city boy, remember?”  With his hat pushed back on his head and his hands in his pockets, he certainly looked like he belonged here.

“And I was born in the forest?” she retorted.  “I am a…a deer?”

If anything his grin grew wider, though there was a softening in his eyes.  “Yeah, you are.”  Confused, she squinted at him, hoping he’d explain, but he just shook his head.  Then Pauline’s earlier reassurance echoed in her mind.  Hana’s eyes widened before she spun away, ignoring the quiet chuckle behind her.

Jeleň _and_ drahý _are the same word?_  she thought in frustration. _What a stupid language!_   And then came a whisper of a thought, sweet and clear:  _He thinks I am dear_.

When she was sure her voice would be steady she said, “In Revúca there is a fine high school, and beautiful churches, but no buildings like this.”  She gestured to the pointed roof of the Vanderbilt mansion, just visible a few blocks down.

He snorted.  “Not in Tábor either.  Older ones, though, that’s for sure.  Made you feel like you had a lot to live up to.  Here, you feel like you could make something new.  Be whoever you wanna be.”

She was still her parents’ daughter and her brother’s little sister.  She was helpful around the house, and thoughtful, and polite.  One day she expected to have a family and a home of her own to care for.  None of that had changed when they’d crossed the ocean.  But she had already become more than she’d ever thought to be, and it was all because they were in America.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask him a question she had never asked herself, but she was curious—and not a little anxious—about his answer.  “Who do you want to be?”

For a long moment he didn’t say anything, mouth set as he stared off to the south.  Finally he said, “Somebody good.  A good brother, a good friend, a good—”  He broke off with a little cough.  

“You are good now.  Tumbler, he thinks you are wonderful.”  His opinion mattered much more than her own.  

Roman shrugged weakly.  “Ah, he’s just a kid.  He don’t know anything.”

“Yes, he does,” she said firmly.  “He knows you.”

He shot her a small smile, and they stood in silence for another few minutes.  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back; the breeze bore the scent of greenery and dust and the faintest hint of salt water.  She’d grown to love that smell on the crossing—she hadn’t imagined that water could smell so different from the crisp, nose-tickling scent of the water from the spring in the hills, or the subterranean notes of buckets drawn up from the well.  The smell of the ocean, saline and boundless and wild, had been the best thing about their voyage; now it brought a smile to her lips. 

When she opened her eyes again he was watching her.  “Want to walk around a while?”  At her nod they made their way down from the rock and onto one of the park’s pathways.

Once they were on their way she asked, “How is Tumbler?” hoping it would lighten his mood. 

Sure enough, Roman made a face.  “He comes in for lunch today and says the headline’s no good, so I ask him how many papes he’s got left.  Oh, none, he says, he already sold ’em all.  Even with a bad headline.”  He shook his head.  “The kid’s so cute he don’t even have to try half the time, ’specially with ladies.  Some guys get all the luck, huh?”  Habitual pride mingled with bemusement in his half-smile; it seemed to imply that he wasn’t one of those so blessed.

Her eyebrows raised.  “Yes,” she said simply, studying his profile.  

He sneaked a look at her, and, finding her eyes on him, turned a faint pink.  It suited him, she thought, biting her lip and glancing away.  “And how was the rest of work?” she asked after a minute, and he started up again.

If she were honest with herself, Hana would have to admit that it was his voice and not his storytelling skill that kept her riveted.  She didn’t understand all of his slang, and more than once he just narrowly stopped himself from cursing, but there was something about his inflection, the way his hands were always in motion, his expressions as he spoke that had her entranced.  He told her about some of his friends coming in, guys he used to sell newspapers with, and hesitantly suggested that one day she might want to meet some of them—“But maybe not Blink,” he added, frowning.  When he recounted a joke he’d overheard a customer tell it was so awful that she laughed, louder than even she’d expected; it was like the unrestrained way Jozef made her laugh.  He stopped in his tracks, grinning at her.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh like that before,” he said.  “I like it.”

“And I like your smile.”  For once she didn’t look away, even as a blush stained her cheeks; and luckily he looked just as red and just as pleased as she did.  They stood that way for a moment, gazing at each other. 

Roman moved first, turning and taking a step forward, resuming the path they’d been following; but then he stopped again, his brows drawn together.  Hana was about to ask what was wrong when he swallowed and stuck out his elbow.

It was a bit unceremonious, perhaps, and yet she couldn’t fault him.  Careful not to appear too eager, she extended her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm.  If he could feel her trembling he didn’t mention it; he just looked at her with a smile that seemed almost relieved, and stood up straighter.  When they continued walking it was in silence.  There were no words for this, anyway: for the thin cotton sleeve separating her hand from the skin of his arm, for the dappled spring light on the path, for the welcome scent of rich dirt under grass and the smell of him, for the sound of children playing in the near distance and muffled laughter from passing couples, for the easy and intoxicating feeling of being so near to him.

The park seemed like another world, one she felt no hurry to leave.  Though there were other people around, they were strangers, with no demands on her time or his, no stake in their lives.  There was freedom in being here and unknown.  She moved closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

Before too much longer the sun was sinking below treetops and rooftops both.  “Time to get goin’,” he murmured, head turned so that his cheek brushed the top of her head. 

She straightened up with a sigh.  “ _Musíme?_ ”  

“Yeah, we do, if I want your folks to keep likin’ me.”  She grinned at the implication, and his steps faltered.  “They  _do_  like me, right?”  

She shrugged, struggling to control her expression, though she couldn’t manage an entirely straight face.  “So far.”

“So far?  I can work with that.”  They walked on a few steps; then Roman asked, voice overly casual, “How ’bout you?”

“Me?  What about me?”

“Do you like me?”

It was almost laughable that he could ask such a question when she was clutching his arm.  Almost, but not entirely, for hadn’t she wondered the same thing a dozen times this evening?  (No matter how Tumbler’s earlier suggestions may have thrilled her, she couldn’t allow herself to believe them.  Not entirely; not yet.)  She came to a stop and he followed suit, wheeling to face her.  The worry on his face deepened as she slid her hand free; it turned to confusion and then interest as she trailed her fingers down his arm and took his hand.  Hope lit his features, and he fit their hands together more securely. 

“So far,” she said quietly, “very much.”

“Good.”  Head angled downward, he took in their joined hands, his thumb moving softly over her knuckles as he went on.  “Just ’cause, ya know, Tumbler’s startin’ to get attached to you.  He’d be pretty sad if he couldn’t see you anymore.”

She agreed with a solemn nod.  “I would not want Tumbler to be unhappy.”

“Me either.  So, um, you’d probably better come to lunch with us on Sunday afternoon.”  When she didn’t reply right away he added, “Please?”

He was looking up through his lashes the way she’d done before and she wished he’d stop; it made it hard to think straight.  Still, she gently freed her hand from his grasp, and her resolve was buttressed when she brushed the pin in her sash.  “When we get home, you can ask Mama and Tatko if I may go.  Then you can see for yourself how much they like you.”  This last she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away.

It didn’t take long for him to catch up and fall into step beside her.  “Right.”  He straightened his cap, squared his shoulders, and took her arm again.  He looked ready to take on the world, and she felt the same way.  “ _Pojďme,_ Hanka.”

And off they went. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobrý večer = Good evening
> 
> jeleň = deer (specifically red deer, though that’s not really important)
> 
> drahý = dear
> 
> Musíme = Do we have to
> 
> Pojďme = Let’s go
> 
> JACK: IF YOU AIN’T READIN’ THESE STORIES ‘BOUT SKITTS AN’ HIS GIRL WHAT ARE YA DOIN’ WITH YOUR LIFE?!?!?!?!
> 
> (…Also, in case you fellas were wonderin’, Sarah’s never stabbed me with a hatpin.)


	12. Lunch Date (11 May 1904)

Somewhere between the dry goods store and home she heard a clear voice woven through the din of the street, exhorting passers-by to inform themselves on the day’s happenings.  Though she couldn’t see the newsie, his familiar voice grew steadily louder as she made her way down the sidewalk, until eventually she heard,

“Wanna buy a pape, miss?” 

Under the hat turned back-to-front was a bright grin.  Nearby loitered another boy, of an age with the first but dressed in cleaner clothes, his expression plainly curious.  Hana stopped, wearing a smile of her own.  “Hello, Tumbler.” 

“Hi, Hana.”  

Seeing that they knew each other and not wanting to be left out, the other boy stepped forward.  “I’m Les,” he offered, “Les Jacobs.”  He stuck out his hand. 

“Nice to meet you.  I’m Hana Kollár.”  As they shook hands she noticed that he didn’t have any papers with him.

“Hana?”  His eyes cut to Tumbler, who gave a small nod.  “ _Ohhh_.”

“So how ’bout it?”  Tumbler flourished what appeared to be his last paper; improbably, his grin grew even more charming.  “Help me out?” 

In her purse there was in fact a penny not already promised away, but he didn’t need to know that.  “Hmm.”  She tapped her chin with a forefinger.  “Are there any good stories today?”

“Good stories she wants,” he said to Les.  Turning back to Hana, he quoted a few headlines that she suspected were not entirely faithful to the contents of the articles.  It would be interesting to compare the two versions, though.  “Or,” he concluded, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “you might be interested in reading the wedding announcements in the society pages.”

She busied herself with locating a penny.  “Why would that be?  I don’t know anyone getting married.”

“Not yet.”  The lilting words dripped with insinuation, and Les snickered.

With a sigh she dropped the coin into his hand and received the paper, presented with a little bow.  She tucked it into her bag.  “Thank you.  Have a nice afternoon.”

“Aw, c’mon, Hana, I was just foolin’.  You’re not mad, are ya?”  A glance at his face showed that he did indeed look contrite.  And she wasn’t angry, just embarrassed and, as always when it came to anything involving Roman, a little nervous and excited.  There was no way she was going to tell any of that to Tumbler, though.

“No, I’m not mad.”

“Good.”  Relief washed over his face.  “Skitts’d kill me if you were.”

“He would not.”  She couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Nah, he wouldn’t.  But he would be awful sore.”

Les, who had been following their conversation raptly, now piped up, “Do you speak Polish?  ’Cause my cousin does, and you sound a little like him when he speaks English.  Except for he’s a boy, and you don’t sound like a boy.”

The question wasn’t new, but at least this time it was asked with goodwill.  “No, I speak Slovak.  But it is a little like Polish.”  At least, sometimes she understood a few words…

“Maybe you should meet Jurek sometime.  And David, my brother.  He’d probably like to talk to you.”

“Why?” she wondered aloud.

“He went to Poland a while ago, and he’s always talking about it.  Since you’re from near there, you might have stuff to talk about.  Besides,” he added, his expression guileless, “you’re pret—”

“Dave just likes to talk.  To anybody,” Tumbler said, shooting his friend a warning look.  “Say, are you hungry?  I’m ready for lunch.”

“I gotta get home.”  Les did not sound enthusiastic. 

Unconcerned by this announcement, Tumbler turned to her.  “What about you?  Got time to eat?”

Most of her errands were done, and she hadn’t any other place to be right away.  Besides, she knew so little about him; this would give her a chance to learn more.  She agreed with a nod.

His sunny grin returned full force.  “Great!  You’re gonna love this place, I promise.”

They said goodbye to Les, who, after a last curious look over his shoulder, shuffled off.  Tumbler moved the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, whistling vaguely as he went, and Hana fell into step beside him as best she could on the busy sidewalk. 

Curiosity soon got the better of her.  “Does Les sell papers, too?”  He looked a little…tamer than some of the young newsies she’d seen on the streets, and had mentioned having a home to get to.  She felt a pang of guilt that Tumbler shouldn’t have the things that Les did, and that she’d had as a child.

All the same, he seemed happy enough.  “Sometimes,” he answered, kicking at an apple core.  “He used to more, him an’ Dave, back during the strike.  But then their pop got better, ’cause he’d been hurt and couldn’t go to work, an’ Sarah didn’t make enough money to keep ’em all, so they had to come be newsies.”

It took her a few seconds to digest this, and even then she wasn’t sure about the sequence of events.  “Sarah is their sister?” she guessed. 

He nodded.  “But she ain’t here, ’cause her and Cowboy got married.  Now they live up on a farm, an’ Les says they’re gonna have a baby in the fall.”  He frowned.  “They musta ordered it from Wells Fargo already.  I wonder how come it takes so long, though.” 

That shed some light on his preoccupation with weddings, at least.  “Was  _their_ wedding in the paper?”

The hint of acid in her voice was lost on him.  “Nah.  But it woulda been if Roosevelt’d come.”

And now the governor was involved?  Tumbler had always seemed honest, more or less—given to playful teasing, and maybe a little free in his interpretation of headlines, but basically truthful when it came to the important things; so as fanciful as these pronouncements sounded, she couldn’t discount them.  Later she’d have to remember to get Roman’s version.  For now she asked, “Is there really a person named Cowboy?”

Adoration shone on his face as he rhapsodized about Jack Kelly.  As he recounted the Cowboy’s adventures, Tumbler leapt and shadow-boxed and otherwise scampered about the sidewalk.  His energy seemed boundless, and his excitement was infectious; Hana felt that if Jack appeared on the street just then she’d be a little star-struck herself.  Tumbler had just finished telling a story about [a borrowed colt being carried down the stairs](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/102254314612/how-about-number-48-for-the-writing-prompt) in the lodging house when they arrived at their destination. 

The name painted across the windows was one she knew well, and reading it set her heart aflutter.  “Tibby’s?”

“It’s where I eat lunch most days.  An’ I thought you might like to see one of the fellas who works here.”

She looked down at herself: presentable, of course, but hardly anything special.  Then again, he’d never seemed to mind how she looked before.

At her hesitation he offered, “But we could go somewhere else if you want.  Mrs. Procházka’s, maybe, if that’d be better.”

“No.”  She smiled down at him.  “This is fine.”

Tumbler shouldered the door open and led the way to a small table, raising a hand in greeting to another waiter as he went.  They slipped onto the seats; Tumbler pulled off his cap, and Hana peered at the brief menu scrawled on a chalkboard.

Roman’s disgruntled frown barely lifted as he approached their table.  “Heya, Tumbs, you want…  Hana?”  He gaped for a moment, then ran a hand through his hair self-consciously.  “Hi.”

Her stomach sank to see him looking so unhappy.  “Are you alright?” she asked.  Without thinking she reached out and touched the back of his hand.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he breathed.  He rotated his wrist so that her fingertips rested in his palm, and his fingers curled into her hand.  It was the lightest of touches, but for an instant she could feel nothing else, was insensate to the rest of the world.  Then, with a glance at Tumbler, he cleared his throat.  “I mean, uh, yeah, everythin’s fine.  It’s nice to see you.”  He managed a smile; while small, it was a marked improvement on his earlier expression.  “What can I get you?”

She looked across the table at Tumbler, whose wrinkled nose and shaking head telegraphed his feelings on the exchange.  Drawing back her hand she asked, “What will we have, Tumbler?”

“Two sausages, please,” he said grandly.

Roman rolled his eyes.  “Ya want sauerkraut with that?”

“Not today.”  He dismissed his brother with an imperious little wave.  She watched Roman saunter off, admiring the way he wore his apron.

And looked back to see her present companion pretending to gag.  It would probably be best to start a conversation before he had time to comment.  “Is it hard, selling newspapers?”

“Not too hard.”  He leaned back and shrugged.  “It helps when there’s a good headline, but you can’t rely on the mugs that write ’em to know what’ll sell.” 

“Do you think I could do it?” 

Roman returned and slid two unasked-for glasses of sarsaparilla onto the table.  At her smile of thanks he sent her a wink before moving off again. 

Meanwhile, Tumbler scrutinized her.  “Well…you’re pretty sweet-lookin’, and that helps some of the girls who sell.  But you’re also kinda quiet, and that’s no good for sellin’ on the street.  Ya gotta be loud so people notice that you’re there, ya know?”

She nodded, and asked a few more questions about his work before Roman came around again, this time bearing a pair of plates laden with steaming sausages and rolls.  “ _Dobrou chuť_ ,” he said. 

Before they’d learned where to shop, the family had suffered through the effects of a few bad sausages, stuffed with more unappetizing fillers than actual meat; it had made her a little wary of unfamiliar sausages.  Tumbler’s was disappearing quickly, with apparent relish.  She cut a slice: it tasted fine.  All the same, she couldn’t bring herself to eat more than half of it, and the same amount of the roll.  “Aren’t ya hungry?” Tumbler asked, as if such a thing should not be possible.

“Not really.  Would you like the rest?”

“Sure, if you’re not gonna eat it.”  She pushed the plate over; he finished her meal with as much speed as he had his own.

When Roman reappeared, Tumbler plunked a few coins into his hand.  Roman dropped them right back.  “It’s on the house today.”

“’Cause Hana’s here?” 

His face reddened, and a bit of his earlier scowl reappeared.  “Do you  _want_  to pay?” he demanded. 

But the coins had already been whisked away and safely secured somewhere.  “Nope!”  Tumbler hopped up from his chair.  “Thanks, Skitts.”

“No problem, kid.”  He put a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, lowering his voice slightly.  “You doin’ okay today?  Got enough for the night?”

“Yeah.  ’Specially since I got a free lunch.”  Tumbler grinned up at him with the same admiration in his expression that he’d had when talking about Jack, though now it was mingled with a more immediate affection.

“Don’t count on it happening again,” Roman warned; but he ruffled Tumbler’s hair before he went to wait by the door.  

Hana had risen while they talked.  When Roman turned to her, she pressed two coins into his palm.  “Hana—”

She shook her head.  “You should not have to pay for both of us.”  He owed her nothing; she hoped he knew that. 

“It’s fine.”  Gently he tried to push her hand away, but she kept hold of his. 

“How about this?  You pay for my lunch—”  She squeezed his hand in thanks.  “—and I will pay for Tumbler.”  The solution was tidy all around: Tumbler would lose nothing, Roman would have the satisfaction of paying for her, and she would not fret over his lost wages. 

It was clear that he wasn’t enamored of the plan; his mouth worked as he stared at her, and she felt sure he was trying to come up with some way to convince her.  Eventually, though, he relented, only a little begrudgingly.  “Fine.”

“Good.”  She smiled, and it was his turn to squeeze her hand.

“Thank you.”  He pocketed the money, letting go of her in the process, and she was surprised how cold her hand felt. 

Together they moved toward the door, where Tumbler waited impatiently.  “What service!  Do you walk all of your customers out?” she teased.

“Only the ones I don’t want to see go.  You gonna walk her home?” he asked Tumbler. 

“Sure.  See ya, Skitts!”  He pulled the door open and rushed out into the sunshine. 

“See you, Skitts,” she parroted, and finally he broke into that pulse-pounding grin—as if it wasn’t already hard enough to go.  But as she tried to leave he caught her arm. 

“When?”  His voice was husky, his touch warm.  Again the world shrank, though she longed for it to be smaller still. 

“Hmm?”  It was all she could manage, dazed as she was by him.

“When will I see you?”

Whenever it was, it wouldn’t be soon enough.  

* * *

The walk home was made without speaking; if he minded, Tumbler didn’t let on.  And it was for the best that he didn’t try to initiate any conversation, because she felt sure she’d be unable to concentrate on it.  It was rare that she allowed her mind to wander quite this far, but now it was filled with so much she  _wanted_ : whispered words and less-fleeting touches and him, just him.  So lost in thought was she that she nearly walked right past her own building.

She shook her head to clear it, and looked at Tumbler.  He was gazing up at the building, where windows were open to let in the air; as always, what wafted out was the smell of soup on the boil and someone’s mother shouting.  Impulsively she urged, “Come up for a minute.”  

He considered this briefly.  “Why not?” he said with a shrug.  “I got a little time before the afternoon edition.” 

They climbed the stairs, and when they reached her floor she saw a flaxen-haired figure leaving an apartment down the hall.  “Good afternoon, Pauline,” she called.

“Hello, Hana.”  Pauline practically pranced toward them; beside Hana, Tumbler made a small noise of wonder.  “Who’s this?”

“Pauline, this is Tumbler.”

“Andy!” he yelped.

“Andy?”

He nodded vigorously up at her, eyes wide.  Then he turned to Pauline with a smile—not the insouciant grin Hana had expected to see.  “I’m Andy,” he said, “very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

Much to her credit, Pauline did not giggle.  “Pauline Hermann,” she said, extending her hand.  Tumbler shook it with the greatest of care.  “You look familiar.  Have we met before?” 

“No.  But me an’ my brother were here the other week having dinner with the Kollárs.”

“Yes, that must be it.  Hana,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “is this the young man who took you to the park?”

“Me?  An’  _Hana_?  Nah.”  He shook his head with what she thought was entirely too much vehemence.  “That was my big brother.  She’s his girl, not mine.”

Pauline looked absolutely delighted to hear this, at which Hana suppressed a sigh.  She’d be in for a grilling later.  “I see!  Well, I hope he’s as much of a gentleman as you are.” 

At that Tumbler puffed up—as it turned out, with both pride and indignation that Skittery might be thought anything less than wonderful.  “’Course he is!  Where do you think I learned it from?  He treats Hana real good, too, don’t he, Hana?”

“No need for a hatpin?”

“No!” she laughed.  “No, Roman is…”   _Kind and handsome and caring and lovely_.  “Very sweet,” she concluded, her pink cheeks betraying more than her description.  Tumbler groaned quietly, though both young women ignored him.

“I’m glad,” Pauline said sincerely.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run.  It was a pleasure meeting you, Andy.”  She beamed down at him.

“You, too, Miss Pauline.”  They said their goodbyes, and Tumbler turned to watch her leave as Hana unlocked the door.

“I like her,” he said, following her in.  “She’s nice.”

“She’s seventeen,  _Andy_.”

“So?  Six years ain’t that much.”  While she put away the shopping, he wandered around the apartment looking at things, occasionally picking something up to inspect it more closely.  “Who’s this?”  

Hana turned to see him holding a photograph of Jozef and Zuzana.  They were dressed in their wedding clothes, and though neither was smiling, both radiated joy. 

She knelt next to him.  “That is my brother and his wife.” 

“Is he older?” 

She nodded.  “Four years.”  There’d been another baby between them, but he hadn’t lived long enough for Hana to know him.  “His name is Jozef, and my…”  She knew the word, and now it was just out of reach.  “How do you call the woman married with your brother?”

“Sister-in-law.” 

“Thank you.  My sister-in-law is named Zuzana.  She also will have a baby soon.”

“What’s your brother do?” 

“He is a teacher,” she said proudly.  

“No kiddin’.  Dave’d probably like to meet him, too.” 

“That would be hard.  They live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

He stared at the picture, where Jozef rested a hand on Zuzana’s shoulder and she held her head high, looking into the camera confidently.  “Do you miss him?”

Tumbler’s voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it before, and suddenly she thought she understood what he might be feeling.  When they’d taken Jozef to the train station it had felt like accompanying him to his grave.  He had been so determined to come to America, before her parents had even considered it; and finally he had saved enough for passage—one ticket, one way.  It was all arranged by the time he told them: he would travel to Pennsylvania, where many Slovaks went to work in the mines.  (She still wasn’t sure that working in a hole in the ground in America was any better than working in a hole in the ground in Slovakia.)  The headmaster of Revúca’s high school had a cousin there, and connections; Jozef would stay with him, and he would introduce Jozef around and help him find work.  So eager and certain he’d been that Tatko hadn’t had the heart to try to dissuade him.  Now, years later with all well, their fears seemed silly; but then Hana had thought she would never see her brother again. 

It could hardly be reassuring for him to hear; but would it be better to lie?  She did not think so.  “Yes,” she admitted.  “Even though we write many letters, and I know he is happy, I wish they did not live so far away.” 

Then, trying to sound more cheerful, she added, “But Zuzana’s family lives near Pittsburgh also, so they are not alone.”

“Is she from here?  America, I mean.”

Hana cocked her head, curious about Tumbler’s interest.  “She was born in Slovakia, and her family came when she was very young—five, I think.  She has lived in Pennsylvania almost her whole life.”

“So they met there.”  She nodded.  As much to himself as to her he mumbled, “He didn’t go away because of her.” 

Tears sprang into her eyes, and the urge to sweep him into a hug nearly overwhelmed her.  She grabbed the edge of the table for support.  “No.  He came to America first, because it was his dream.  And where he moved to, he found a woman he loved.  She did not take him from us.”

He looked over at her, and then carefully replaced the photograph on the table he’d taken it from.  “Hey,” he said, voice a little gruff, “don’t cry.”  Hesitantly, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.  Hana couldn’t resist; she leaned forward and wrapped her free arm around him, pulling him closer.  For a moment he stood stiff.  Then, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed against her; and just as quickly he shuffled backward. 

She stood, wiped her eyes, and went into the kitchen.  There were a few cookies left, and heaven knew he needed them more than Tatko did.

“I gotta go,” he said as she returned, his eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but at her.  She handed him the cookies, now wrapped in paper and tied with twine; he shoved them in his pocket and, with a sigh, finally met her gaze.  “You won’t tell Skitts, will ya?”  His voice was plaintive.

All she could figure was that he didn’t want Roman to know she’d cried—though it hadn’t been Tumbler’s fault, not truly.  As far as she was concerned, there was nothing to tell.  

“Tell him what?”  Inspiration struck as he fidgeted, and she clamped her lips tight, lest a giggle escape.  She did, however, allow herself a smirk.  “That you’re in love with Pauline?”

It was gratifying to see  _him_  go pink for a change.  “What?” he squeaked.  “I don’t—what’re you talkin’ about?”

“Don’t worry,” she sing-songed, “I won’t tell him.   _Or_  her.”

Whatever he grumbled under his breath as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest was surely not complimentary.  “Anyway, you’re one to talk,” he told her.  “If anybody here’s in love, it ain’t me.”

“I am not!”  That was the truth, too.  It had to be the truth.  Anything else would be too terrifying—and wonderful—to contemplate.

He grinned.  “You sure about that? 

Adamantly so, for all he needed to know.  “Yes.”  Now she crossed her arms, hoping she looked more defiant than she felt.  

“Right.  ’Cause the way you were makin’ eyes at him at lunch was just  _friendly_.  An’ ’cause he just  _hates_  seein’ you an’ holdin’ your hand an’ all that stuff.”  He stuck out his tongue, and she felt her heart soar.  “Let’s make a deal, yeah?  You keep your mouth shut, an’ so will I.  Alright?”  He stuck out his hand.

Even though there was nothing at all for him to tell, she agreed readily.  “Alright,” she echoed, shaking his hand firmly. 

The clock chimed and he jumped.  “I gotta go,” he repeated, though now he was at ease once again. 

“Thank you for lunch.” 

“No problem.  It was, uh, kinda fun talking to you.”

“You, too.  See you.” 

“See ya.”  He dashed down the hall, leaving her to sink against the door with a sigh and a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobrou chuť = bon appetit
> 
> JACK: #important footnote: she’s looking at his butt 
> 
> I AIN’T EVEN MET SKITTS’ GIRL AN’ I LIKE HER ALREADY
> 
> (and she’s bound to like me now that Tumbler regaled her with all o’ my derrin’-do)


	13. A Letter (13 May 1904)

_Dear Joži,_

_Mama has left a little space at the end of her letter for me to write something to you.  I hope you and Zuzana are well, and Mr. and Mrs. Balog.  Are your students still suffering from “spring fever”?  I understand how they feel—who wants to be indoors when it is warm and everything is in bloom?  Except maybe if it is raining, as it is just now.  The air smells fresh and clean, though, so I do not mind._

_You see, that I am practicing my English writing to you, even though I think I should write sometimes in Slovak, so I do not forget how.  I also practice plenty in speaking English, and I feel better in it now.  While I am working I do not have to say much, just “Yes, Mrs. Roth,” or “Thank you, Mr. Howard” (he is the butler of the Vande Kerks), and at home Mama and Tatko and I speak Slovak to each other.  But with some of my friends I must speak English, and I have learned many things.  I think some of what they say is not good English, though.  My friend Pauline was born here and works in a shop, so I think she must speak well, and I try to listen to the way she talks._

_In Pittsburgh do children sell newspapers on the street?  I have made friends with one boy here who sells the_ New York World _.  His name is Andy, but others call him Tumbler.  His brother is named Roman, which is easier to say than Skittery.  I don’t know what this nickname means, but he lets me call him Roman, and that is good.  He was born in Bohemia and speaks Czech—don’t worry, we mostly speak English together.  Except sometimes I don’t know a word, or don’t want Tumbler to know what I say; and some things are better in your own language._

_You will be jealous when I tell you that few weeks ago Mama made segedínský guláš and knedľa.  It was as delicious as you remember.  Usually we don’t have such big meals, but this was special because we had guests for dinner._

_I wish you were here to talk with me.  There are many things I would like to ask you, about how some things work in America, and how you can be certain of your heart.  But even if you are far away I am happy, and I hope you too are happy, and that when the baby is old enough you will bring him or her to New York to meet us._

_Love from your sister,  
Hanka_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> segedínský guláš and knedľa = pork with a cabbage sauce, served with slices of dumpling bread
> 
> “Joži” is a nickname for Jozef. It’s roughly pronounced YO-zhee.
> 
> “Zuzka” is what Jozef calls his wife. But Hana doesn’t feel she knows her well enough to use that yet. Zuzana’s maiden name is Balogová; like Hana, she’s now a Kollár.
> 
> I am plagued by the fact that I don’t know what Slovak was like in the late 19th and early 20th century, and not just because of Hana.
> 
> There’s a really fine line between accurately writing mistakes that a Slovak English language learner would make, and being deprecating. I feel that Hana has not been super consistent in her level of English mastery. That’s because when I first sent her asks I didn’t have her whole backstory realized, and consequently they sound much more polished than they should. The constraints of the ask box are difficult to work around, though. My idea is that her writing is stronger than her speaking because she has time to think about what to write, which means there are fewer mistakes than when she’s trying to keep up in conversation. At the same time, mistakes are more noticeable when you’re the only one talking, or writing, in this case.
> 
> Commas exist in places in Slovak that they don’t always in English, and Slovak has no articles, so those are errors that I’m confident about Hana making.
> 
> Jozef is obviously convinced that strong English skills are important for integrating into American culture, even though he married into another Slovak family and teaches math, not language. He’s not super wrong, though. Don’t worry, when he writes back he’ll tell her she’s doing well.
> 
> Jozef and Hana are as close as you can expect siblings to be with a four-year age gap and 368 miles of distance between them. Even so, this is probably all she’s going to say (or suggest) about her relationship with Roman. What Mama said in her letter may be something else entirely, though. ;)
> 
> Sharing letters like this was not an uncommon practice for correspondence in the 19th century, and there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t have continued into the 20th, especially as a cost-saving measure.
> 
> Questions that came up, but that I didn’t try too hard to find the answers to:  
> -How readily available was poppy seed in NYC in the early 1900s?  
> -If Slovák v Amerike, a Slovak-language newspaper, was published in Harrisburg, PA (which is closer to New York than Pittsburgh), could you get it in NYC?
> 
> The first Slovak-English dictionary specifically for immigrants, Americký tlumac (American Interpreter), appeared in the 1880s. In 1905 there was a work called Prakticny slovensko-anglicky tlumac (The Practical Slovak-American Interpreter) by Paul Kadak.


	14. Trolley (15 May 1904)

Hana stepped down from the trolley with a wince, her eyes trained on the pavement.  She’d never spent so much time on her knees scrubbing floors before.  Now she felt wilted.  Without thinking she turned toward home, so tired that she hardly noticed the footsteps next to her. 

“Where’s the fire?” 

“What?”  Her head jerked up; there was Roman, smiling at her, though she saw concern in his eyes.  “Roman!  What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d surprise you by meetin’ the trolley.” 

“How did you know when I would be here?” 

He winked.  “Newsies always know what’s goin’ on on their streets.  Even when they aren’t actually newsies anymore,” he added, staving off her protest.  “So can I walk you home?” 

“Yes.  Please.”  With a wan smile she took the arm he offered.  They meandered toward home; she was always glad to have him beside her, but this evening she found herself leaning on his arm more heavily than usual. 

“Long day?”

“Very long,” she sighed.  “The Vande Kerks had a party on Saturday.”  She looked up at him, eyes wide.  “For rich people, their shoes were very dirty.”

He chuckled softly.  “Nice to know they ain’t so different from you an’ me, I guess.”  His eyes glinted amber in the sunlight. 

“You and me,” she murmured.  She heard his indrawn breath and saw his eyes dart to her mouth.  

This felt like home.

* * *

He held the front door open for her and then followed her up the stairs.  Hana unlocked the apartment; he hesitated on the threshold until she took his hand and pulled him in.  “Mama, Tatko _, sme tu_ ,” she called. 

“ _Vy?_ ” Tatko wondered from the bedroom as Mama put her head out of the kitchen and said,  _“Dobrý večer!_ ”

“ _Dobrý večer_ , _”_  Roman replied. 

“You will stay for dinner?”  Even Hana wasn’t sure if Mama was asking or telling.

“I, uh—”

Tatko came out, face damp and hair mussed.  “Ah, Roman,” he said, striding over to shake his hand.  “Come, sit.”  Roman, powerless to resist, settled into a chair at the table, and she slipped into the bedroom.  Though Hana usually changed out of her work dress before dinner, today it was all she could do to exchange her shoes for slippers, splash water on her face, and pull the pins from her bun.  She sighed in relief as hair fell around her shoulders. 

She returned in time to help carry bowls of soup to the table, where a plate already held thick slices of good coarse bread.  The meal passed quickly; no one had much to say, preferring to focus on chewing.  The soup was full of potatoes and carrots, but there were slivers of ham swimming through the broth, and plenty of paprika for seasoning.  For once done before her father, she set her spoon down with a sigh. 

The respite was brief, though; as soon as everyone was finished she rose and scooped up the empty bowls, depositing them in the sink.  Mama came after.  “Go, sit.”

“What?”  She shook her head, as much to clear it as to disagree.  “No, I will help.” 

“Hanka.  Roman did not come here to talk to Tatko.”  With a smile, Mama brushed a thumb over Hana’s warm cheek.  “Go.  I will wash the dishes.”

In fact he was talking to Tatko, sitting on one end of the small settee, though he looked to her as soon as she entered.  Sensing Roman’s interest was lost, her father trailed off, moving to a chair near the window and devoting his attention to a book.  Hana sat down next to Roman; it was hard to maintain a respectable distance between them when the settee was only so big.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey.”

“Ya know, I wasn’t trying to get invited to dinner.  I don’t mind, o’ course, I just mean…”  He ducked his head.  “That’s not why I wanted to walk you home.”

“Next time Mama invites you, I will chase you out with a broom.”

He laughed, the rich sound of it better than dessert.  “I’d like to see that.”

“I clean houses all day,” she reminded him with a nudge to his ribs.  “I am good with the broom.”

“Gotta be better than me.”  His grin faded as she covered a yawn with her hand.  “You worked too hard today.  I should go an’ let you rest.”  In spite of his words he made no move to get up.

Her hand was halfway to his before she realized, and it hovered in midair before she returned it to her lap.  “Don’t go yet,” she said, half an order and half a plea; he nodded.  She went on, “Usually it is not so much work.  It was a surprise to see what a mess they made.  Like children.”  As she spoke she ran her fingers through the ends of her hair, then pushed it over her shoulder.  

Roman’s hand twitched against his leg.  “Your hair looks real pretty like that,” he whispered.  Hana automatically glanced at Tatko, but he was still immersed in his book.  Her eyes slid back to Roman, and the urge to take his hand returned, nearly unbearable this time.  Instead she straightened her skirt, brushing away imaginary dust; and when she was done the hand nearest him just happened to fall onto the cushion of the settee, palm up.  A hundred heartbeats later his hand covered it, his fingers weaving between hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered back.  Her head dropped against the back of the settee and she turned to face him, her cheek against the upholstery.  He leaned back, too, not as relaxed as she was but angling his shoulders toward her ever so slightly.  Her eyes traced his jaw, the hair curling around his ear, the curve of his eyebrow.

“Tell me a story.”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

His gaze slipped past her, through her, for a moment.  Then, with a gentle squeeze to her hand, he began, “When I was little, we used to go visit my grandparents sometimes.  They couldn’ta lived that far away, but for a kid it seemed like going on this big adventure…” 

* * *

“Hana.  Hey, Hana.  Wake up.”

The fabric beneath her cheek was not the somewhat scratchy cover of the settee; it was warm, and softened with wear, and smelled faintly of sweat and soap and tobacco.  She snuggled against it with a contented little sigh.

“You gotta let me up, Hanka.”  The voice was close to her ear, and she felt the words as much as heard them.  A kiss was pressed to the crown of her head, and then the voice grew louder as her pillow shifted away.  “I gotta get back to the boardinghouse before too late.”

Reluctantly she opened her eyes a crack.  Then they flew open as she realized who she’d actually been leaning against, and something hot—something that wasn’t entirely fear at her parents’ reproach, and wasn’t just a little embarrassment at falling asleep—jolted through her veins as she sat up.  Roman’s face was flushed a faint pink when she dared to peek at him, his lips parted as she scooted away, disentangling their hands as she did.

“I told ya you worked too hard,” he said.  There was a bit of a crack in his voice.

Mama was in her chair, sewing with the last of the light; Tatko had disappeared, likely down the hall to the bathroom.  The shadows had deepened, the noises of the neighbors muted as the building prepared for bed.  He was still here, and saying he had to leave, and she felt off-balance—felt her center of gravity pulling toward him, even though she’d moved away, even as he stood.  As he thanked her mother for dinner she struggled to her feet and shuffled forward, toward where he waited by the door.  “I’ll be right back,” she told Mama.

For a second it seemed like Mama might stop her, and for the first time in her life Hana knew, heart freezing, that she might one day have to choose between her parents and someone else.  Fortunately Mama just nodded once, looking unsure herself, and said, “ _Rýchlo_.”

There was no sign of Tatko in the hallway, which was just as well.  She trailed Roman to the stairwell and down to the landing between floors; he paused there, stopping short so that she remained on the bottom step, their eyes nearly level for once.  “Ya don’t have to come all the way down,” he said, “this is fine.”

It was absent her parents, and, for the time being, anyone else who lived in the building.  It was more than fine.  He raised a hand and caught a lock of her hair, twining the ends around his fingers, then brushing from her temple all the way through.  The touch was gentle and electric.  She swayed forward, landing a hand on his shoulder to steady herself just as his free hand splayed against her waist.

They stood: her toes hanging over the edge of the step, her hand on his shoulder, his breath warm on her face, his eyes hooded.  They fluttered closed when she ran her hand up, past where his pulse thudded in his neck, to cup his jaw.  A longing little noise escaped him, and she bit her lip.

When his eyes opened, they were trained on her mouth.  He licked his lips, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “I wanna…”

Below them the front door clattered open and footsteps began to pelt up the stairs.  They broke apart, stepped back into that polite distance propriety demanded, into positions that wouldn’t call down anyone’s disapproval.  Seconds later the twins from upstairs rushed by, sniping at each other, one trying to push past the other.  The moment was good and shattered.  She wondered if she looked as annoyed as Roman did.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, sounding petulant to her own ears.

As if against his will his lips twitched up, and a dimple appeared in his cheek.  “Yeah.  Tomorrow.”  He backed away a step, watching her all the while.  “Sweet dreams.”

She crossed her arms on the handrail and leaned her head against them, watching until he disappeared from view.  She couldn’t have said how long she stayed there, or how she got back to the apartment; but that night her dreams weren’t nearly as sweet as real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sme tu = we’re here
> 
> Vy? = You (plural)? 
> 
> Dobrý večer = Good evening
> 
> Rýchlo = quickly


	15. Seward Park (22 May 1904)

“Oof.”  Roman grunted as Tumbler scrambled to make himself comfortable on the taller boy’s back, looping legs as far around Roman’s waist as they could reach and dangling arms over his shoulders.  “You’re gettin’ too big for this.  What’s Mrs. Hall feedin’ ya?”

“Same as usual.  I just get more now that you’re gone.”  He aimed a poke at his brother’s stomach.

“Ha ha.”

They carried on, discussing recent happenings at Duane Street, heedless of the two young women spying on them from just inside the door.  After a moment Tumbler began to thump a rhythm against Roman’s chest; when Roman started to hum an apparently familiar tune Tumbler matched his thumps to its waltz time.

“They’re adorable together,” the younger girl whispered.  Her companion nodded.  “Do they have any other brothers?  Perhaps one, oh, around eighteen?”  This elicited a giggle.

Then Mr. Reiter came up the steps, his arms full of packages, and Hana gave up stealth to open the door for him.  “There she is,” she heard Roman say; even without looking she could tell he was smiling.

“Finally.”

Once Mr. Reiter was inside, and her presence revealed, Hana stepped out.  Pauline followed at her heels with her usual grace.  Upon seeing her Tumbler let out a little sigh.

Hana smiled at the young men in greeting, her gaze lingering on Roman, before turning to her friend.  “Pauline, this is Roman Kučera.  Roman, this is my neighbor, Pauline Hermann.”

They shook hands.  “Delighted to meet you,” Pauline said. 

“You, too.”  Roman rolled his eyes toward Tumbler.  “And this is my brother—”

“We’ve met,” she cut in with a sunny smile.  “Hi, Andy.”  Roman raised an eyebrow at the name, but said nothing.

“Hi, Miss Pauline.”

“Now, I do hope you’ll forgive me for intruding, but my mother and Mrs. Kollár thought it best that I join you all this afternoon.”  Hana had been ready to leave when Mrs. Hermann had popped her head out and asked where she was off to.  It had only taken a few doubtful glances from Pauline’s mother to convince Hana’s that perhaps it would be more respectable for them to have a chaperone along—and an eleven-year-old, no matter how curious and unabashed, was apparently not the right person for the task.  So Pauline had been pressed into service, and had apologized for her mother’s interference as they descended the stairs.  While piqued that her affairs were so open to discussion, Hana couldn’t be annoyed with Pauline.

“No problem,” Tumbler answered easily. 

Despite his obvious puzzlement, Roman agreed.  “Sure.  Get down, will ya?” he said over his shoulder.  “I’m not cartin’ ya all the way there.”  Tumbler dropped from Roman’s back, and after the latter had straightened his shirt and vest, the four set off.

Tumbler led the way, with Pauline keeping pace beside him.  The others followed arm-in-arm.  “ _Andy_?” he wondered quietly.

“It is how he introduced himself when they met,  _Roman_.” 

“Fair enough,” he chuckled.  With his head cocked to one side he watched the pair; apparently recovered from his brief bout of shyness, Tumbler was cavorting down the sidewalk.  “He’s way too young to be noticin’ girls, right?”

“You tell me.”

“Yeah, he is,” he decided.  “He can wait another ten years or so.”

Hana hid a smile.  “Is that how long you waited?”  Truth be told, she was curious; surely someone like him had attracted plenty of attention before now.  Surely she wasn’t the first girl to be called his.

“I shoulda waited longer,” he admitted, and turned his whiskey-warm eyes on her.  “Shoulda waited for the one girl worth noticin’.”

So no one would see her pleased flush, she ducked her head against his shoulder. 

“Well, I’m not waitin’ on anybody,” Tumbler shot back, “so hurry it up!”

* * *

In the middle of Seward Park was an oval of something like gravel; from it sprouted a large framework of metal bars, on which children swung and played.  Tumbler’s awe only gave him a moment of pause before he raced toward it, with Roman calling after him not to break his arms.  The others managed to find an empty bench at the edge of the oval, and sat among the mothers and nurses, watching him scamper over the equipment.  “I think he likes it,” Hana said.

“He wants to be an acrobat,” Roman explained.  “He’s gonna run off an’ join a circus one day if I don’t keep an eye on him.”

“He’d have to leave the park first, and it looks as if that may never happen.”  Pauline adjusted her hat to better shield her eyes from the sun.

Roman smirked.  “He’ll come if ya call him.”  If Pauline heard his remark, she didn’t reply; even so, as subtly as she could, Hana elbowed him in the ribs.  He just grinned and rubbed the spot.  

A few minutes later, Hana’s earlier annoyance was resurfacing.  Sandwiched between the two, she felt unable to speak to either.  To make matters worse, they didn’t seem interested in talking to each other, and the idea that they might not like each other troubled her.  At least Tumbler was having a good time. 

Then Pauline stood, fanning herself with one hand.  “Please excuse me for a moment,” she said.  “I simply must have a drink of water.”  Before Hana could ask if she was alright she had already glided away, looking the picture of health. 

“Now that’s a good friend,” Roman said appreciatively.  She  _was_  a good friend, Hana knew, to drop her own plans so she could see him; and guilt twisted Hana’s stomach.  Then he chuckled.  “She don’t miss a trick.  Tumbler could do a lot worse.”

“What about the ten years?”

He picked up her hand, holding it delicately, as if it were something expensive and fine.  It was strange the things his touch could do to her; it felt like she’d been thrown a lifeline, but at the same time she ached for more.  “Think she’ll agree to wait?”  Her first instinct, to laugh a no at the prospect of the popular young lady waiting for a boy to grow up, died when she saw his expression.  It wouldn’t be so earnest if he were still talking about a little infatuation, so vulnerable if he meant someone else’s feelings.  

“She would wait if he would.  But,” she added haltingly, “ten years is a very long time.”  Anything could happen in a decade, or in an instant.  He of all people didn’t need reminding of that. 

He shook his head, smiling softly.  “I don’t think he could wait that long to be with her.  He likes her too much, an’ he ain’t that patient.”  She tilted the brim of his cap up, the better to see his eyes; when she did she was glad to be sitting down, because the affection in them made her knees weak.  

* * *

“SKITTERY!”  His head shot up, brows drawn together; his legs were tensed and ready to run.  The hand holding hers tightened, nearly to the point of pain.  

Standing at the top of the bars was Tumbler, one arm waving wildly; they both returned the wave, though with less abandon.  “WATCH THIS!” he hollered, and jumped, tucking his knees and turning over backwards in mid-air.  Somehow he landed solidly on both feet, and immediately took off toward them. 

Roman dragged a hand down his face.  “That kid’s gonna be the death of me.”

When Tumbler returned he was breathless and red-cheeked.  “Did ya see me, Skitts?  Did ya see my flip?” 

“I saw ya, alright.  You about gave me a heart attack.” 

“What, ya thought I would fall?”  He scoffed, disgusted by the very thought.

“There’s a reason we call ya Tumbler, and it ain’t on account of your fancy landin’s.”  His lower lip began to protrude, and Roman’s tone turned conciliatory.  “That was a real good flip, though.  All those other fellas out there are jealous.”  In truth, some of them were staring in the direction he’d run with slack jaws.  

The compliment restored his good humor.  “Can we come back sometime with Les an’ Boots an’ Ten?”  Roman nodded, and Tumbler grinned.  “Thanks, Skitts.” 

“No problem.  Now go find Pauline, would ya?  We can’t keep her out too long.”  Tumbler nodded and pelted off again, down the path Hana indicated.  Once reunited they set off for home. 

This time when Tumbler shimmied up his back Roman didn’t complain.  He just hooked his arms securely around the boy’s legs without breaking his stride.  Tumbler let his head drop onto Roman’s shoulder, and Hana and Pauline followed, their arms intertwined.

“Eighteen,” Pauline said, “not too tall, and just as darling as they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: I THINK NELL’S GOT SOME COMPETITION IN THE “IMPOSSIBLY CUTE” DEPARTMENT


	16. Meta: Hana character development questions

Part I: copied from [@dimenovelhero](https://tmblr.co/msCGat6Tyh1E6GMtTylZttA)  
The directions were to “fill in the answers you most associate with your character for each question.”  Most of these answers were basically the first thing that came to mind, without overthinking them.   
  
**1\. ANIMAL.**  cat  
**2\. COLOR(S).**  pale blue, green, grey  
**3\. MONTH.**  February   
**4\. SONG.**  “[Ľahká](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D-BpQZlDaqyM&t=OWU5MDljNjY2ZGE5NGZiNjA4NWU0OWRkYmE0NjFhZDUxMzc0ZmExNyxxNVZVV25ibg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161041602875%2Fanswered-a-couple-of-random-character-development&m=1)” by Korben Dallas (anachronistic, but I think modern-day Skittery would like it, if he stumbled onto the Slovak corner of YouTube, and so Hana would hear it fairly often) ( _bez teba, láska, ma to nebaví_ ) (oh no I started thinking about him singing it to her my life is ruined)  
**5\. NUMBER.**  33  
**6\. DAY OR NIGHT.**  day  
**7\. PLANT.**  linden tree.  or maaaaybe red poppy.  
**8\. SMELL.**  lye soap  
**9\. GEMSTONE.**  serpentine   
**10\. SEASON.**  spring  
**11\. PLACE.**  a windy, deserted stretch of shore under a grey sky, with the smell of salt on the air  
**12\. FOOD.**  apples  
**13\. ELEMENT(S).** earth  
**14\. DRINK.**  Buttermilk

Part II: from [this post](http://prokopetz.tumblr.com/post/158782170307/inadvisable-character-design-questions-137-if) by prokopetz    
Inadvisable character design questions #137:

**If your character was a tree, what kind of tree would they be?**  
A willow.  

**Your character has had a song stuck in their head for the last three days. What song is it?  
**It’s a tavern song she heard while doing errands.  She doesn’t know all of the words and is pretty sure some of them are inappropriate, but it’s  _so catchy_. 

**In a deserted-island scenario, would your character consent to be eaten? Why or why not?**  
Depends on who she’s with.  To keep her family alive, sure (though Mama and Tatko would never allow it).  But if it were a friend, even Pauline, she would be less willing.  The boys…would require some serious consideration.  In any case she’d nearly exhaust herself working to find a way to avoid any such extreme measures. 

**What’s the pettiest thing your character would at least consider selling their soul to the Devil for?**  
She’s starting to think it’s a kiss.  Maybe a pair of really cute shoes, ones that are completely impractical for working or even doing much walking in.  Off-white ones, with ribbons, and a delicate little heel.  Something beautiful and useless and all hers. 

**Muffins or bagels?**  
Ideally a fruit pastry would be an option, but if not, she’d take the bagel.  Muffins are too crumbly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: …I mean, I didn’t even consider eatin’ people when I had to choose deserted-island companions, but if Hana ever gets stuck with us, she can rest assured she won’t be the victim. Me an’ Dutchy an’ Bumlets are gentlemen…an’ anyway, Skitts would kill us if we ever got rescued. So eatin’ her wouldn’t do us much good.


	17. American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness (27 May 1904)

Hana arrived at the building to find Pauline sitting on the steps next to a beautiful black-haired girl, whom she introduced as her coworker Letty.  Her arched eyebrow as she took in Hana’s dress spoke more eloquently than her cordial hello did.  A book rested on Pauline’s lap; at that angle she could just cipher out the title [ _American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchive.org%2Fdetails%2Famericanetiquett00houg&t=NWVjMTM5NGIxMjg2OTJhMzRlNjJkNjdjZjQ4ZjZiY2Y2YTdjMDhkYSxXNVZFU3lYVQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161147650585%2Fhana-arrived-at-the-building-to-find-pauline&m=1) on the black cloth of the cover.  Hana leaned against the iron railing along the stairs as Pauline flipped the book open.

Letty craned her neck to peer at the title page.  “1883?  You couldn’t have found a book from this century?”

“It’s the one my mother has,” Pauline answered patiently, flipping to the table of contents.  She scanned the list, reading the headings aloud under her breath: “‘Social Intercourse;’ ‘Entrance into Society;’ no, none of these.”

“‘Higher Culture of Women,’” Letty snorted.  “Let’s see what he says about that.”

Obediently she turned to the chapter, skimming over the first pages and skipping past an illustration of a pensive woman in an elaborate, old-fashioned getup.  “‘Women must have strength of will to do and to dare,’” she read aloud.  “‘They must dare to be and do that which is right; dare to face false customs; dare to frown on fashion; dare to resist oppression; dare to assert their own right; dare to be persecuted for righteousness’ sake; dare to do their own thinking and acting; dare to be above the silly pride, the foolish whims and trifling nonsense that enslave little minds.’”

Hana had never considered herself daring, or strong-willed.  But the words, though straitlaced, struck a chord with her, left her wondering if she’d not tried hard enough, if she was equal to the challenge they posed.

It was not so with the others.  Pauline pouted.  “Frown on fashion?  We’d be out of jobs if we all did that.”

“This isn’t what we’re looking for anyway,” Letty said.  To her credit, Pauline did not point out that she’d been the one interested in the chapter.  “Keep going,” she urged, with little shooing sweeps of her hands.

A few pages later Pauline paused again.  “Here we are,” she said with satisfaction, “‘Chapter Twenty: Courtship and Marriage.’”  Her light head and Letty’s dark one bent over the pages, following Letty’s finger down the lines of type.

“‘No well bred lady will appear eager for the attentions of a gentleman, no matter how much she may admire him’—I must not be well bred, then, because the fellas never have to guess how much I like them.”  Letty chuckled throatily.

Pauline shot a glance at Hana.  “It’s different for us than for actual ladies and gentlemen, I suppose.”

“There are always different rules for the Vanderbilts and Morgans than for us.”

Pauline’s eyes moved to the next page, where she read, “‘Parents should be perfectly familiar with the character of the company kept by their daughters…Mothers especially should watch closely the tendency of their daughters’ affections.’”  She shuddered and groaned theatrically.  “Not too closely, please.  My mother doesn’t need to know  _everything_  I do.”

Letty leaned back, casting a spiteful eye on the book.  “None of this is helpful.”

“Well, I am sorry that Professor Houghton did not address the question of how to marry one’s boss’ son.”

“He should have.  That’s the kinda thing people really need to know.”

“Do you like him?  The boss’ son?” Hana ventured to ask.

Letty shrugged one shoulder languidly.  “He’s no Casanova, but he’ll own the shop one day, and I like that.”  A smile played over her lips as she imagined that future.  Then it widened into a smirk as she nudged Pauline.  “Don’t worry, I’ll let you keep working there.”

“Thank you ever so.”

Her eyes narrowed as they raked over Pauline.  “I’m surprised you don’t got a catch all lined up.”

“I’m not in any rush.  Besides, I’d prefer to marry someone I actually liked.”  She raised her eyebrows and clarified, “His personality, that is, not just his bank account.”

“But it’d help if he had a nice fat checkbook, right?”

“Well…”  Pauline squirmed, casting a helpless look at Hana.  “It wouldn’t hurt,” she eventually admitted.

Unfortunately, Letty’s gaze followed Pauline’s, and her expression as she scrutinized Hana was no kinder than it had been before. “Few of us can afford to be so noble when it comes to marriage.  Look, Hana: would you rather marry some poor slob you adore and live in a place like this—”  She waved a hand over her shoulder at their building, at which Pauline made a noise of protest that went ignored.  “—all your life, or some guy who’s maybe not the most interesting but has a house on Park Avenue?”

“Park Avenue?” Pauline cut in sharply.  “You do aim high.”

But Letty was undeterred.  “Well?” she demanded.  Her dark eyes bore into Hana, who fought to keep from flushing.

“I—”

“Oh, don’t even bother answering; I can see it all over your face.  You think everything will be fine as long as you’re with your true love.  You can be happy with just a crust of bread as long as he’s by your side.”  With hands clasped under her chin and eyes rolled heavenward, she looked like a Mulberry Street Madonna.  Then her hands dropped and she went on, her tone frosty.  “I know you haven’t been here long, sweetheart, but that kind of fairy tale doesn’t come true in New York.  Life costs actual money here.  Love don’t keep food on the table, and it don’t keep you warm in the winter.”  A sly grin took over her face.  “Well,  _love_  might not, but other things will.”

Color bloomed in Pauline’s cheeks as she slammed the book shut.  “You needn’t be vulgar.  Just be polite.”

“Will being polite get me a husband?”

“ _Why don’t you try it and see?_ ” 

Letty’s eyes swept over Hana’s dress once again.  She stood, regal in bearing, and descended the steps.  On the sidewalk she wheeled to face them, looking from Pauline’s angrily flushed face to Hana’s pale one.  “It’s fine with me if you want to spend your whole life serving others and cleaning houses you can’t afford to live in.”  Head cocked and eyes wide, she smiled at Hana in a parody of friendliness.  “I can hire you if I need my floors done!”

Pauline leapt up.  “Oh!  Go…go chase yourself, Letizia.”

With a roll of her eyes Letty stalked away.  Pauline watched her go until she turned the corner at the end of the block; then she collapsed back onto the step.  She gathered the book into her lap again and stared at the cover, calming her breathing.  After a moment Hana sat beside her.

Pauline turned to her immediately, eyes wide and troubled.  “I’m so sorry.  She’s not usually quite that awful.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You shouldn’t listen to a thing she says.  She thinks she knows everything, and that she can say whatever she likes to anyone without consequence.”  She rubbed at the bridge of her nose.  “And me!  I let her at you, and I made it sound as if  _I_  were doubting your behavior.  I  _am_  sorry, Hana.”  Her shoulders slumped.

“I know.  It’s fine.”  Pauline sighed in response.  Hana slipped the book from her friend’s lap and studied the cover, tracing the gilded letters with a fingertip.

“Oh, Hana, don’t look at that!” Pauline cried, reaching for it.  “That old professor doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Heedless, she flipped through the pages, intending to find the first passage Pauline had read out.  Instead the book opened to the last chapter they’d read from, and Hana stared down at a section titled “Requirements for a Happy Marriage.”  Unable to help herself, she began to read, lips moving silently as she went; not a few of the words were unfamiliar, but she carried on, unwilling to ask for help—content at the moment to remain in her silly pride.  At the end of the first paragraph she slowly read aloud, “‘A man should love above himself.’” 

Then, quietly, Pauline giggled.  “There you are.”  Hana looked over to see a sunny smile blossoming on her face; it was impossible for her heart not to feel lighter at such a sight.  “You’ll be happy indeed.”

Pauline took her hand, and Hana shut the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: IF I OWNED A SOLID GOLD HATPIN I’D PRESENT IT TO PAULINE IN HONOR O’ SAVIN’ SKITTS’ FUTURE MARRIAGE FOR THE THOUSANDTH TIME
> 
> (Sarah just pointed out that we don’t know if they’re gettin’ hitched yet. But I don’t got a solid gold hatpin yet, either–or ANY hatpin–and that ain’t stopped me from sayin’ so.)


	18. Summertime (4 June 1904)

The past week’s late spring warmth had bloomed into heavy heat under cloud-laden skies. Hoping to catch a breeze off the river Hana had wandered a few blocks to the east. She’d rolled her sleeves up, pinned her hair off of her neck, and folded a torn bit of newspaper into a makeshift fan; even so, the air seemed to press down on her, sticky and still. She knew her face was red, shining with sweat—but then again, so was the face of everyone she passed. 

And who should she see heading her way but her two favorite young men. She saw them first and waved, the paper fan waggling in the air. Tumbler darted toward her with his customary “Hey, Hana!” while Roman followed at a pace more in keeping with the weather. It gave her time to push back the tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead. “Hi,” she said, with the best smile she could muster.

The boys’ hair was dark and damp with more than sweat. Under his suspenders Tumbler wore only a neatly patched undershirt; Roman was fully dressed, though his sleeves were pushed up to the elbow and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone.  

Dragging her eyes away, she cleared her throat. “What have you been doing?”

“Swimmin’, down at the docks.” Tumbler jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing back the way they’d come.  

“We would’ve asked you to come, but…”

Roman didn’t need to finish; they both knew it would have been impossible. There were half a dozen reasons why she couldn’t have gone—the fact that she didn’t know how to swim one of the most practical—all of which went without saying. Except, of course, if you were eleven and fond of embarrassing your friends. 

“But we swim in our drawers,” Tumbler explained matter-of-factly, “an’ Skitts said ya ain’t s’posed to let a girl see ya like that until after you’re married.” He smiled up at her, looking perfectly innocent but for the devious gleam in his eye. 

Roman’s expression was somewhere between horrified and thunderous. “ _Tumbler_ ,” he snarled. “What did I say about repeatin’ everything I tell ya?”

She didn’t take any notice of his answer, as she was too busy trying not to think of Roman in just his drawers. For the first time that day she felt thankful for the heat, sure that her face couldn’t get any redder than it already was. Still, she swallowed, and began to fan herself again. It was hard to know where to look, and against her will her eyes traveled over him, head to toe and back, noting where his shirt clung to his torso, the spots on his shoulders where water had dripped from his hair, the wrinkles in his trousers from where they’d been left in a heap before he jumped into the water… She bit her lip. 

“’Scuse us,” Roman said gruffly, his hand clamped around the back of Tumbler’s neck, “I have to take him someplace private so I can murder him.” When their eyes met he shrugged a little by way of apology, clearly still abashed. 

Nevertheless his voice softened as he asked, “Can I come by an’ see you later? After I get cleaned up, an’ it’s a little cooler?” She nodded, and they said their goodbyes.

“I still don’t see what’s so bad about it,” Tumbler protested as Roman hustled him away. “What if she—a girl, I mean— _wants_  to see your—”

The rest was muffled, whether by street noise or Roman’s hand she couldn’t tell. All that mattered was that he was finally quiet. With a sigh, she turned back toward home. There would be no relief to be found at the river, not after what she’d heard. On the way home she’d keep a lookout for a [hokey pokey man](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FHokey_pokey_%28ice_cream%29%23Etymology&t=YWExNzdkMzdlZDIzMDQ1ZTFmZDY4NjU1N2IwZTc3YWU2NWZmMmRmOSx5QlN0bHBXbA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161449250550%2Fthe-past-weeks-late-spring-warmth-had-bloomed&m=1); maybe an ice cream would cool her feverish brain. If not…it would be a long summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: Askin’ to be excused before ya haul off an’ murder someone is the mark o’ a true gentleman, ya know.


	19. Vaudeville (12 June 1904)

“Mr. Kollár, Mrs. Kollár, would it be alright if Hana and Pauline came to the theater with me an’ Tumbler—uh, Andy—on Saturday afternoon?”

Oh, clever, she thought, sparing him an admiring glance.  He was offering two chaperones right away—and anyone who didn’t think Tumbler could be an effective chaperone had never spent any time with him; watching out for the boy kept Roman from paying her an indecorous amount of attention.  And he was asking so nicely, standing tall, only fiddling with his cap a little.  Still, it was no certainty that her parents would agree. 

“What theater?”

“Irving Hall.  It’s a vaudeville theater.”  Their faces must have looked blank, because he explained, “There’s lots o’ different acts: guys who tell jokes, an’ sometimes acrobats, an’ Medda—Medda Larkson, the owner—sings.  And in the afternoon lots o’ ladies an’ kids’ll be there,” he added. 

Mama and Tatko exchanged looks as Roman watched them expectantly.  Hana didn’t bother; every time she thought she knew what silent conversation they were carrying on it turned out to be something entirely different.  Instead she looked at Roman.  He did look clever, if a little anxious.  Perhaps she could do something about that.  She stuck out her tongue, but he didn’t notice; then she puffed out her cheeks and crossed her eyes.  This time he glanced at her, did a double take, and broke out into a grin.  At first pretending to be unimpressed he rolled his eyes; then, after sneaking a glance at her parents, he thrust his lower jaw forward, teeth bared in a bulldog underbite, and widened his eyes madly.  She stifled her laugh behind her hand. 

Her parents looked over then and he hurried to rearrange his features into an expression that would inspire trust.  Mama’s little smile revealed that she hadn’t missed all of their clowning around, though.

“What time?” Tatko asked eventually.  A flutter of excitement began in Hana’s stomach. 

“Two?  She’ll be back in time for dinner, if ya want.”

“And Pauline will go?”

He nodded.  “She’s already said she will.”  Though Hana wondered when he’d asked, curiosity was crowded out by anticipation. 

“Good.”  Tatko gave Mama one last glance; without raising her head from her sewing she inclined her head a fraction.  He turned back to Roman.  “You will come get them and bring them back.” 

The tension melted from his shoulders.  “Yes, sir.  Thank you.”  He turned a triumphant smile on her and she returned it, brimming with pride and looking forward to the weekend all the more now.

* * *

As excited as she’d been about their trip to the theater, Tumbler was even more so.  The quartet had made it a few blocks when she mentioned not knowing the way, since she’d never been to the theater before.  Tumbler’s incredulity nearly stopped him in his tracks.

“You never been to Irving Hall before?”  He looked past her to Pauline, though Hana noticed he didn’t include her in the interrogation.

She shook her head.  “I have not been to any theater in New York.”  She’d seen a few from the trolley as she made her way uptown, the names in stately brass on handsome stone walls, and she often heard her employers talk of going to this play or that concert.  It was little wonder she hadn’t thought such entertainments were available to people like her.

“What about before?” Tumbler wanted to know.  “Did ya have vaudeville shows in Slovakia?”  He was so keyed up that she was surprised he wasn’t turning cartwheels down the pavement.

“I don’t think so.”  At his impatient expression she went on, “But we had concerts, and plays sometimes, and there was always singing and dancing for parties…”

“What kind o’ dancin’?”

The Misses Vande Kerk talked about the polka and the waltz, but neither name applied to the dancing she’d done.  It was useless, she decided, to try explaining with words.  So she put her hands on Tumbler’s shoulders and spun them both one way a few steps; then, with a kick of her heels, a twist of her hips, and a stamp of her feet, she changed their direction.  Without her prompting he put his hands on her waist and mimicked her kicks and stamps enthusiastically, if not expertly.  Releasing him, she put her hands on her waist and twirled, her feet skipping through the familiar steps even if her outfit did not behave properly.

She spun to a stop with one last stamp and stood, hands still on her waist, frowning down at her lower half.  Roman and Tumbler whooped at the performance, but Pauline, noting her expression, asked, “What’s wrong?  That was lovely.”

“My skirt should go up when I spin.”  She twisted back and forth, but the offending article did little more than swirl around her ankles.  “This is too long for dancing.”

Tumbler snickered, and she looked up to see Roman’s face pink as he studied the sign on a storefront.  “That was real good, Hana,” Tumbler said, eyes bright. 

“It is better with music.” 

“Later on you can show me the steps.”  He didn’t wait for her to agree before he started off again, leaving the others to trail behind him. 

* * *

“Hmm,” said Pauline. 

Above the marquee lounged a woman, several times larger than life.  If she had had to judge based on the sign alone, Hana could be excused for believing that the theater catered to a strictly male audience; yet, as Roman had said, children and women were entering and exiting the lobby, most of them looking as happy as Tumbler did.  She shot a glance at Pauline, hoping her friend would not nix the outing almost before it was started.

The younger girl gazed upward, her lips pursed thoughtfully.  After a moment she said, “I suppose one mustn’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Attagirl,” Roman said with a grin.

Tumbler tugged at her hand, pulling Pauline across the street.  “Come on!”

Despite his insistence he broke away as soon as they had reached the other side.  Without a word he peeled off, disappearing around the corner of the building.  In answer to their askance expressions Roman merely said, “He’ll meet us inside.”  At the box office he handed over their admission and ushered them into the theater. 

From a distance, the curtains of brocade and velvet looked nearly as nice as the ones in the Roths’ parlor, with which she was intimately acquainted.  The backdrop appeared to be some twilit forest, backed by purple hills and incongruously fringed with advertisements for local businesses.  A balcony hung over the lower seats, with boxes on each side of the stage; a low railing ran along the front of the stage, with plaster cherubs flanking a catwalk that jutted toward the audience.  There was much gold paint over scrollwork, artificial flowers and an air of only slightly musty elegance.  A thin man with a mustache was crooning in a reedy tenor as they found a place to sit.

They hadn’t been seated for more than a few minutes when a sandy-haired man with a patch over one eye bounded up.  “Skittery!  How’s it rollin’?”

“Blink?”  True to the word, he did; then he stood to shake hands with the newcomer.  “Hey.  What’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh, ya know,” he said, shrugging casually and flashing a grin, “I heard you might be here and thought I’d come in an’ say hello.”  He did not, however, appear to be that interested in talking to Roman, instead bestowing the majority of his attention on the young ladies still seated.

“Sure,” he drawled, disbelieving.  “Ladies, this is an old newsie friend, Louis Ballatt.  Kid, Hana and Pauline.”  Roman dropped a hand on Hana’s shoulder as he said her name, and didn’t move it when he’d sat down.  It was almost too warm in the crowded room; all the same, she found herself leaning into the touch.

None of this escaped Blink’s notice.  “Nice to meet ya,” he told her sincerely.  When his gaze shifted to Pauline, so did the quality of his smile, becoming markedly more rakish.  “It’s a real pleasure.”

“Mr. Ballatt.”  Pauline nodded. 

“Call me Blink.  All my friends do.”

“Then I certainly may not, as we’ve only just met.”

“Lucky for me I’m good at making friends,” he replied easily.  “Do ya mind if I sit here?” 

Somehow Hana knew that her opinion was not required, nor Roman’s, though he nodded.  “I’m sure you’re welcome,” Pauline said, “but this is Andy’s seat.”  She smiled benignly.

Roman swallowed a laugh.  “Oh, she’s good,” he said under his breath.  “She’s gonna make him  _work_.”  He sounded well pleased by the prospect. 

“Oh.  Well, I wouldn’t wanna take somebody’s seat.”  He settled into the next chair down. 

Hana leaned to whisper in Pauline’s ear.  “Do you have a hatpin?”

“Of course.  Don’t you worry, dear.”  There was a hint of steel in her voice, to match the pin.  “I’ve got this situation well in hand.”

* * *

If Tumbler was surprised to see his fellow newsie he didn’t show it, too caught up with a handful of candy to bother with anything else.  With no explanation for where he’d been or how he’d gotten in he took the empty seat between Pauline and Blink and gave his attention to the stage. 

Blink adjusted his chair, almost completely turning his back on the others.  Hana thought that was odd, but maybe he didn’t want to miss any of the show.  Even if Roman swore the boy had been going through a growth spurt, it wasn’t enough to see over the taller Blink, no matter how he craned his neck.  When that didn’t help, he half stood and leaned sideways in a fruitless attempt to see better.  “Hey, Kid,” he hissed, and Blink looked over his shoulder.  “Ya mind switchin’ seats with me?  I can’t see so good from here.”

“Sure, kid.”  He stood and stepped aside to let Tumbler take his chair.  Then he sat next to Pauline.

“Wasn’t that kind of you,” she said dryly.

His smile was beatific.  “Virtue is its own reward.”  Pauline made a noise that from anyone else would have to be called a snort, and he grinned.

* * *

After a while the hand lifted from her shoulder.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him yawn, stretching his arms, his mouth gaping exaggeratedly; then his arm was around her shoulders.  Without hesitation she leaned into it.  Maybe she shouldn’t have, though. 

All the same, she only moved enough to turn her head and whisper to him.  “This is too easy for you.  Maybe I should make you work.”

He chuckled.  “You think I ain’t been workin’?”  He spoke for only her to hear.  “You think it’s easy to keep from kissin’ you every time I see you?”

She shivered at the words, and at his breath against the skin of her neck.  “Roman.”  The name was meant to be a gentle scolding, a reminder that they were in public, and surrounded by children at that.  Instead it sounded like a plea.

“ _Bože můj_ ,” he groaned.  His arm tightened around her shoulders.  “Hana…” 

Boisterous applause broke out around them, as well as a none too quiet clearing of her throat from Pauline.  She didn’t say anything, but raised an eyebrow at them.  Roman grumbled something unintelligible as he leaned back, withdrawing his arm.

“You must have a time, keepin’ the two o’ them apart,” Blink remarked to Pauline.

She bristled.  “Their behavior is perfectly acceptable.  Hana is a decent young woman, and Roman has shown her the greatest respect.”

He spread his hands in surrender.  “Hey, I ain’t sayin’ otherwise.  But ya can’t deny that they seem more interested in each other than in the show.”

Currently two men in a donkey costume were cavorting across the stage, much to the amusement of the youngest members of the audience.  Pauline cut Blink a sideways glance.  “Can you blame them?”

His bright laughter mingled with the noise of the audience.  It was a pleasant sound, she could not deny that, and he had a nice face when it wasn’t leering.  Determined not to let on, she composed her expression into the bland look that greeted her most trying customers.

It didn’t seem to put him off.  “I’ve heard some about Hana from Tumbs, but nothin’ about you.”

“Perhaps I’m much less interesting than she is.“

“Doubt it.  C’mon, tell me somethin’ about yourself.” 

For a moment she looked at him; he wasn’t well dressed, to be sure, but he was good-natured, and Roman had called him a friend.  Those things counted for something in her book.  She cocked her head.  “Surely your experience selling papers has given you time to observe many different people.”  He nodded, though he looked a little confused.  “So why don’t  _you_  tell  _me_  something about me?  Not a silly compliment, either; a fact, please, about me, and not my eyes or my hair or my dress.  I do own a mirror.”

What might have been admiration shone in his eye, and he nodded deliberately.  “Alright,” he said, “deal.”

She gave his a hand a firm, cordial shake in agreement, but was surprised when he did not release her straightaway.  Instead he turned her hand palm up, tracing across it and up the length of her forefinger.  She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the exercise when he spoke.

“Not much in the way of callouses, so ya don’t do a lot of scrubbing—for work, I mean.  I’m sure ya help with the cleaning at home,” he added placatingly.

“So I’m not a laundress.  Then what do I do?”

He lowered her hand, and she returned it to her lap.  His gaze swept over her appraisingly.  “Ya don’t smell like fish—”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“—or bread, an’ that rules out lots o’ things, restaurants an’ bakeries an’ such.  You’re pretty—that’s an observation, not a compliment,” he explained, shaking his head, when she opened her mouth to protest.  “An’ ya dress like ya know what the muckity-mucks are wearing, even if ya can’t afford the real nice stuff yourself.  So maybe ya work in a shop, where ya have to look nice.  Or maybe not; it’s just a guess,” he added, fidgeting under her astonished stare.

She recovered quickly, aided by the way his expectation was mingled with anxiety.  “Well done,” she said, and relief flooded his face as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Your turn.  Tell me something about me.”  He crossed his arms, leaned back, and waited.

“Ah, but I am at a disadvantage.  I’m just a shop girl; you’re far more experienced than I.”  It was an obvious opening, but she wanted to see what he’d do with it.

The effort he went through to halt his instinctive response was almost comical: his mouth opened and his eyebrows went up before he could stop them, and his features froze that way for a beat.  Then his eye narrowed and he screwed up his mouth sardonically.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said at last.  “Ya seem plenty sharp to me.”

The response satisfied her, but she also felt an unexpected disappointment.  “Thank you.  Now,” she went on, curiosity getting the better of common sense, “what would you have said if you weren’t being so dreadfully polite?”

“I’da said I could help ya get experience if ya wanted.”  He smirked, and she chuckled quietly.  “But I mean it: you’re a smart girl.  Smarter’n a bum like me, for sure.”

“I find that hard to believe.  Andy’s demonstrated some of his more effective sales techniques, and they require a remarkable amount of mental flexibility.”

“No more than it takes to convince an ugly woman that the right dress’ll make her beautiful.”  Her cheeks flushed a little at the pointed remark, but he dismissed her concern with a wave.  “Don’t sweat it.  People need papes an’ dresses, an’ we need jobs.”

She cracked a small smile.  “We wouldn’t want the city swarmed with undressed, uninformed masses.”

“Nope.  What I wouldn’t give to sell that headline, though.  I’d make a fortune.”  Tapping his chin, his expression grew thoughtful.  “‘Undressed’ is easy,” he mused as if to himself, before asking her, “What’s a good word for ‘uninformed’?”

“Uneducated?” she offered.  “Illiterate?”

“Nah, you’re thinkin’ too smart.  The average guy on the street just wants to get where he’s goin’, so ya gotta get his attention with catchy words, an’ the shorter the better.”

“Like…idiot?”

“Yeah, like that,” he said with a nod.  “What else?”

“Moron?”  She’d never seen someone look so happy about such impoliteness.

She was wracking her brain for another synonym when he bolted upright.  “I got it!”  His elation was catching; she leaned forward, eager to hear what he’d come up with.  “Nude nitwits,” he confided in a whisper.

Pauline wasn’t quick enough to stop the shriek of laughter that burst out of her.  She clapped both hands over her mouth, but her shoulders shook and her eyes watered as she giggled helplessly.  Blink laughed along, looking proud.  Every time she thought the giggles had subsided the phrase echoed in her mind and she was off again.

“Hey!” Roman whispered loudly at them.  “What’s the big idea?”

“ _Nude nitwits_ ,” she choked out; the puzzled looks on their faces were nearly as hilarious, and she buried her face in her arms on the tabletop, entire body vibrating with laughter. 

* * *

“Some chaperone you are,” Roman joked.  

“Hey, I wouldn’t complain if I was you.”

“Who’s complainin’?”  He winked at Pauline, who rolled her eyes. 

They had emerged from the theater to find it had rained while they were inside.  Now they picked their way around puddles as they made their way to the girls’ building.  Blink had said he’d walk with them part of the way before taking Tumbler back to Duane Street, and no one had had reason to object, so he walked next to Pauline, hands swinging at his sides.  She had long since recovered from her fit, though its effects—shining eyes, fetchingly rosy cheeks, a carefree air—remained, and only made her look lovelier.  

“I think you might be a bad influence, Blink.”

He gestured at the others: Tumbler’s tongue was poking out as he tried to juggle his two remaining pieces of candy, while Hana and Roman strolled close together, talking quietly, their hands intertwined.  “Looks to me like you got plenty of good influences.  I figure a little bad won’t hurt ya.”  There was no mistaking the innuendo, nor the flirtatious tilt to his lips; she couldn’t say she minded all that much. 

Quick as a wink he swooped down and kissed her cheek.  Grinning at her gasp, he swaggered ahead; but he didn’t make it far before he felt a fierce prick in his rear end.  He bit down on a curse, settled for an emphatic “Ow!” and whirled to glare at her, one hand over the sore spot on his hindquarters.

“Like you said,” she reminded him, hatpin in hand and an angelic smile on her lips, “plenty sharp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1898 vaudeville theaters in Boston began operating as “continuous,” a style that made its way to New York by 1899. Acts ran in a loop from opening until closing, with no real start or end to the show as long as the theater was open. Patrons could show up and leave whenever they wanted; so Jack, David, and Les showing up in the afternoon to find a show in progress makes sense.
> 
> I’m saying that the usual seating plan of the Irving was modified for the rally, to jam the most kids in. I think it’s obvious that the seats in the balcony and the boxes were fixed, but there are tables with chairs around them on the ground floor, and that’s where I have them sitting.
> 
> Though there are dudes yelling at Medda while she sang, vaudeville impresario B.F. Keith promoted “clean” vaudeville, suitable for all ages, with rules for the behavior of both performers and audience members. Increasing one’s potential audience is a good business move, so I think Medda would have made her show a little more family-friendly over the years.
> 
> Bože můj = My God
> 
> The Virtual Vaudeville Project website presents the digitally recreated late 19th century Union Square Theatre.
> 
> JACK: Fellas, I’ve changed my mind. Instead o’ bein’ like Western Jim, I wanna be a hero like Pauline.


	20. Swoon (16 June 1904)

“What does  _swoon_ mean?”  The unfamiliar word she pronounced slowly, frowning as she did so.  Words in English did not always sound like they looked; this one seemed to have too many Os, and she had wondered if the printer had made a mistake.

“Where’d ya even hear that?”  He steered her carefully around a lump of manure as they crossed the street.  “Were those Vande Kerk girls gossipin’ again?” 

“It was in a book.  There was a girl and she was very surprised by something and she fell into a swoon.”  That was true, more or less; she just didn’t mention that what had surprised the heroine so much was a passionate kiss from a previously indifferent suitor.  She also didn’t mention the thrill the words had caused her, and how she’d stared unseeing at the book for several long moments afterword, imagining a different girl and a different boy in a very similar embrace.

“Swooning is when ya pass out.  Ya know, it all goes dark an’ ya fall down.”

That had been what she’d reckoned it must mean, so she nodded. 

“What book were ya readin’?”  It was not an idle question; there was real interest in his voice, and inwardly she cringed.

“Oh.  It is one of Pauline’s.”  In his last letter Jozef had writtenthat he was glad to hear that Hana had friends to practice with; but if, as she suspected, they were not using proper English, she must be careful not to fall into bad habits.  To that end he recommended that she try to read more, and sent the titles of several books that Zuzana had enjoyed. 

The one she’d gotten from Pauline had not been on that list.  It was a popular story, though, judging by the well-worn state of the inexpensive edition that had made its way through several hands before it appeared in their building.  Most of it was easy enough for Hana to understand, and she’d asked Pauline to define a few words that she hadn’t been sure about.  Now she wasn’t sure it had been a good idea to bring it up with Roman.

“What’s it about?” he asked, equal parts encouraging and curious.

She shifted uncomfortably.  At least they were walking; that gave her an excuse not to look him in the eye.  “Well, there is a girl who is very beautiful and kind, but poor.”

He muttered something that was probably “Of course” under his breath.

“And there is one man who wants to marry with her, and he has a big house and promises to send her sister to the hospital she needs if they marry.  But he is older and sometimes cruel to his servants, and she is afraid that he may be cruel to her later.”  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod knowingly.  “Then there is another man who she loves, very much, and she has been sad because she does not think he loves her back.  But maybe it is alright, because if he does not love her, then she can marry the other man and he will help her sister.  Except then the man she loves says that he  _does_  love her, and kisses her.”

“An’ that’s when she swoons?” he inferred; she nodded.  “Musta been some kiss.”

_The heart she had thought so cold was now revealed to be as tender as her own, as inflamed with the purest affection and regard.  Felix inclined his head, and Rosalie felt the whisper of his sweet breath against her alabaster cheek, then the brush of his lips against hers.  Oh! such fire she had never known; such rapture as now transported her.  To be at last in his arms was the fulfillment of so many waking dreams—but no fantasy could have prepared her for this bliss.  As their lips parted, she was overcome, and fell into a swoon, supported by Felix’s manly embrace._

“It sounded nice,” she said eventually.  Hopefully the warmth she felt in her cheeks and the back of her neck was not noticeable.

“Is this fella handsome?”

“Yes.”  The author made that abundantly clear, as much as she did that Rosalie was a delicate beauty, too ethereal for the world she was forced to live in.  It was clear that Mrs. Anna Neill thought outward appearance reflected inner character.

“What’s he look like?”

Hana’s nose wrinkled at the unexpected question.  “He is tall, with brown hair and green eyes—”  Though a previous reader had penciled “emerald-like” in the margin near  _smaragdine_ , she had been surprised and pleased to understand it without any explication.  And she’d learned the English word for  _smaragd_ , though she was unlikely to have an opportunity to use it; so the book had been edifying after all.  “—and an aristocratic profile.”

Roman swiped a hand over his nose.  “Huh.  An’ he’s a good guy, huh?”

He was a little boring; she wasn’t sure why Rosalie thought he was so wonderful when he hardly spoke to her.  She shrugged.  “Better than the other man, the rich one.”

“Have ya finished it yet?”

“No.”

“Who d’you think the girl—what’s her name?”

“Rosalie Monroe.”

“Who d’you think old Rosalie’s gonna end up with?  The rich guy who can take care of her family, or the one she loves?”

What kind of books did he read?  There was not a doubt in her mind what the outcome of the story would be.  Before it ended Rosalie would wrestle with her conscience a while longer, but her sister would fall in love with a kindly doctor who would heal her, or succumb after extracting a promise that Rosalie would live the happy life that her sister was denied.  Either way, the joyous ending was a certainty.  “She will marry Felix, the man she loves,” Hana said confidently.

“’Cause he’s so good-looking?”

“No!  Because she loves him.”  Then light dawned.  “Rosalie thinks Felix is very handsome, and I think the writer thinks this too.  But not me.”

Though he looked a little embarrassed at being discovered, he was unwilling to give in just yet.  “What, ya like the rich fella better?”

“No, I like  _my_ —”  She clamped her lips shut before she went any further.  But it was too late.

“Your what?”  His expression was too smug to endure, and he repeated, nudging her ribs, “You like your what?”

With a sigh she stopped.  They were at the mouth of a little alley; when she stepped into it, out of the flow of traffic on the sidewalk, he followed.  Clean laundry stretched from building to building overhead, waving gently and adding to the alley’s shade.  She looked up at Roman.  In spite of his maddening smirk she said, “I think my fellow is better than any man in a book.”

A flush suffused his cheeks, and his smile shifted to one of contentment.  “So I’m your fella, huh.”

“If I am your girl, then you are my fellow,” she reasoned.  “Right?”

“That’s fair.”  He glanced up at the clothes hanging above them before pulling off his cap.  “I don’t guess I’d mind bein’ called Hana Kollár’s fella.”

“Good.”

With that settled, she thought they’d be on their way again.  But Roman had other things on his mind.  Beneath the playful tone there was a note of earnestness when he asked, “Think ya’d swoon if I kissed ya?”

Considering the way her heart thumped when he so much as touched her hand, it was a distinct possibility that an actual kiss could render her unconscious.  “Maybe,” she allowed with a light shrug.  “It would have to be a very good kiss.”

“Oh, yeah?  An’ what makes a very good kiss?”

“You—”  Her bravado flagged and she swallowed, lowering her eyes.  “You tell me.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch for decades.  Rather than wonder what was going on in his mind, she focused on trying to name the queasy feeling in her stomach: was it dread?  Nausea?  Despair? 

“Are ya sayin’ nobody’s ever kissed you?” he asked quietly.

The gentleness of his tone helped her rally.  “Of course someone has,” she retorted, mock indignant, “Janči Horváth.  It was on first of May and he said he would marry me.”  She planted her fists on her waist and smiled triumphantly.

“Well, that ain’t happenin’.”  He crossed his arms.  “Do I need to pay this Horváth kid a visit?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying her best not to smile.  “We were six,” she admitted, arms dropping to her sides.  “I don’t think he would remember.”

“Then he ain’t worth thinkin’ about, and that kiss didn’t count.”  With a flick of his wrist he dismissed poor Janči entirely.

“Tell me, please,” she urged.  “What…what makes a very good kiss?”

“Uh…”  Once more the color rose in his face, and his arms tightened across his midsection.  His eyes darted to her face and away again; she watched them trace the mortar of the wall just over her shoulder.  Finally he sighed and forced himself to meet her gaze. 

“I guess…well, in some books, they kiss in a real romantic spot.  Like, uh, in a garden full o’ roses, or out in the moonlight.”  They both looked around: there was a pile of broken crates a few feet down the alleyway, past which a cat stalked a mouse; instead of the perfume of flowers it smelled like hay and hot metal and a hint of sour beer.  He rolled his eyes and seemed ready to give up, the first criteria not being met.

“What else?”

He licked his lips.  “They prob’ly say sweet things to each other.  Like…”  His eyes—the familiar brown of oak, more precious to her than any gem—searched her face; his voice dropped in pitch as he stepped closer.  “Sometimes I almost forget what I’m doin’ at work because I’m too busy thinkin’ about you.”

“Sometimes I can’t fall asleep because I want to see you,” she whispered.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.  “An’ then—in the book—she’s prob’ly tremblin’ as he holds her safe in his arms.”  But it was his hand that shook as he touched her cheek lightly, hesitantly; and when she didn’t shy away he pressed the other to her waist, just enough to prove that he was there, that this was not a dream.

Hana’s lips parted.  Just like he had on their threshold, and in the stairwell, Roman moved closer, bending toward her.  Her every nerve felt alive with the knowledge of him: his breath on her face, his fingers still stroking her cheek, his hand slipping from her waist to her back.  A soft gasp escaped her when his nose brushed hers. 

When his approach stopped she felt close to tears.  “All that stuff’s fine,” he murmured, and the hand on her cheek skimmed downward, his fingers curling to brush the back of her neck.  “But I don’t think it can really be a very good kiss unless ya care about the person an awful lot.”  And his lips met hers, soft and steady.

Her vision could not go dark if her eyes were already shut; but maybe her knees buckled a little.  Maybe she did shiver at the patient pressure of his hands.  Maybe she clutched at his shirt as much to support herself as to draw him closer.  Maybe she felt dizzy when he finally broke the embrace, panting as he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

“That was—”

“Very good,” he finished for her.  She was gratified to hear the hoarseness in his voice.  He moved back a little, and she loosened her grip on his shirt.

“So.”  A grin was once again tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “Feelin’ faint?  Think ya might swoon?”

She raised her eyes from his lips and shook her head.  “Not yet.”

“Not ye—?” he began, but his question was cut short as she pulled him down for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Women read and wrote dime novels, too, though the one in this story does not exist in real life.
> 
> JACK: You ever thought about how often girls swoon in dime novels? It happens at least once in every book.


	21. Paulína (22 June 1904)

“Whatcha got there?”

She glanced down at the small package wrapped in pale pink paper and tied with a little bow.  “It is a present for Pauline.  Today is her name day.”

Tumbler’s face scrunched up in confusion.  “Her what?”

“Her name day.  There is a calendar and all names have a day,” she explained.  “Today is Paulína; Jozef is nineteenth of March; mine is twenty-sixth of July.  When it is your name day you get a small present, like flowers or sweets.”

It was no surprise that his face lit up with the possibility of gifts.  “Or marbles?” he asked eagerly, and she nodded.  “When’s my day?”  He hoped it was soon; he could use a new shooter.

She answered with a sorrowful shake of her head.  “It is a pity, but there is no day for the name Tumbler.”

“Ha ha,” he said flatly.  “What about Andy?”

Hana thought for a moment, lips moving silently.  Even if she wasn’t as pretty as some other girls, he thought, she was awful nice most of the time.  “Maybe it is like Andrej,” she suggested at last.  “I think that is in the autumn sometime.  I will check the calendar when I get home.”

“Let me know when ya find out.”

He drummed his fingers against his money pouch, considering.  It’d be nice to give her something, but he wasn’t sure what young ladies liked—flowers and sweets, Hana had said, and he tried to remember things the older boys had bought for girls, things they said girls liked to get.  An idea began to form.  “’F I give ya somethin’, will ya promise to take it to Pauline, an’ tell her it’s from me?”

“Of course I will,” she said, sounding a touch offended by the insinuation that she might not carry out the task.  Then, practical as ever, she added, “As long I can carry it, that is.”

Tumbler looked at her and grinned.  “That ain’t gonna be a problem.”

* * *

Pauline opened the door to a beaming Hana offering a gaily-wrapped gift.  “ _V_ _šetko najlepšie k meninám!_ ” she said.

Pauline accepted the package with her usual politeness.  “Thank you,” she returned, ushering Hana into the apartment as she added, “Though I don’t know what that means.” 

“All the best on your name day,” she translated.

“Oh!”  Pauline brightened.  “Is it today?”  She seemed to remember her grandmother’s name day greeting coming earlier in the year; but it had been many years since the last letter had arrived, and she could not be sure any longer.

“In Slovak calendar it is, for Paulína.”  Hana nodded expectantly at the gift in her hand until Pauline sat and began to open it.

She unwrapped it carefully, laying aside the ribbon and paper to save.  From the box she drew out what looked like a little porcelain vase, a bit smaller than her hand; it was decorated with painted violets and only chipped on one side.  Its low dome top was pierced with holes, and when she realized what it was she giggled.  “A hatpin holder?”

Hana nodded, grinning.  “To keep your weapons safe.”  Still laughing, Pauline thanked her again.  Then she confided, “Andy sent you something, too.”

“How sweet!  Though of course he didn’t have to.”  Her friend’s hands were empty; she wondered what the boy could have to give, and hoped it was something she could accept in good conscience.  “What is it?”

In lieu of answering, Hana said, “He said I must do this exactly.  So please, close your eyes.”  Pauline did so obediently—at least until she felt the kiss pressed to her cheek.  Then her eyes flew open as her cheeks colored.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” she admitted, chuckling.

“And I am happy Blink was not there as well.”  The laughter rang out anew, and as Hana moved to the door she called, “Happy name day, Miss Pauline!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: TUMBLER YOU ROGUE


	22. Meta: Hana and Skittery

Occasionally I find it necessary to hash out in concrete terms the reasons why one character might be interested in another, as if I’ve been called upon to justify the relationship. 

So: Why does Hana like Skittery?

Their similar origin was the the first thing that caught her attention.  Though New York is a big place, Hana’s community is such that it  _feels_  like she knows most, if not all, of the Slovaks there.  Coming across someone with whom she has a common background–traditions and language and a way of looking at the world–but whom she hasn’t actually met before is a novelty.  But there is more to it than mere novelty, though.  It’s comforting to be understood as you are, to exist without having to explain everything about yourself and where you come from (literally or figuratively), to feel that you can be yourself.  Hana has all of that with Skittery.  And at the same time, their experiences in Europe were not identical; there’s enough difference that they still have things to learn about and from each other.

But he is also very much an American, and a New Yorker, and that intrigues her.  Yes, in terms of birth Pauline is more of a native than he is, but his experience makes up the difference.  He’s had to learn to be tough and careful and to think quickly; he has a wealth of knowledge that Hana could never hope to gain, and skills that will serve him well through his adult life.  It would be easy for someone who had suffered the hardships he has to become truly bitter and mean, but he hasn’t.  Is he sometimes withdrawn and worried, snappish and desperate?  Of course, and understandably so.  But she’s also seen that despite his struggles–losses from which she thinks (wrongly) that she could never recover–he can still be kind and silly and affectionate and thoughtful.  Hana admires that about him and so much more, from his work ethic to his intelligence to his strength.

Included among those things is his relationship with Tumbler.  Apart from being sweet, their friendship is also incredibly revealing.  It shows not only that he is capable of devotion, but that he wants stability and a family.  It’s been fairly recently that she’s learned that not everyone really wants those things; but now she’s met people like Letty, who only wants a marriage that will suit her desire for financial and social advancement, and Blink, who doesn’t seem to want any sort of long-term romantic relationship at all, and it’s changed her perspective somewhat.  Hana has always assumed that she would get married and most likely have children one day, and, though she isn’t given to fantasizing, she’s always looked forward to it.  His demonstrated interest in family life is something else they have in common, and is perhaps even more important to their possible future happiness than their similar cultural background.

On a lighter note, he makes her laugh, and introduces her to new experiences that no one else of her acquaintance would be able to.  And, yes, she thinks he has one of the most wonderful smiles she’s ever seen.

Now the question that remains is why Skittery likes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLINK: HE LIKES HER FACE, UNDERSTAND?!?!?!?! –Among other attributes.
> 
> SKITTERY: …Pauline shoulda killed you the minute you met her.


	23. Introductions (1 July 1904)

Her steps slowed as they neared the restaurant. Though she’d heard so much about Sarah and especially Jack that she felt like she’d met them already, that did little to calm her buzzing nerves. No matter that she’d won Tumbler’s approval; there was no guarantee that one of Roman’s oldest friends would like her.

Was this how Roman had felt before meeting her parents? 

Tumbler had been ecstatic ever since Les had told him that Jack and Sarah were coming back for a visit.  The cousin Les had mentioned was heading back to Poland, and the family was gathering one more time before he left; if Tumbler recognized the bittersweetness of the occasion he didn’t let on, instead reveling in the idea of seeing his friend again.  “An’ you’ll finally get to meet him!” he’d exulted to her between customers.

“That would be nice, if they have time.”

Thanking an older woman for her purchase, he’d shaken his head.  “You’re gonna,” he’d said firmly.  “You gotta.”  She’d hidden a smile at his insistence, privately believing that the famous Cowboy would have more important things to do in the city than meet her.

So when Roman had relayed the invitation it had still been something of a surprise.  And now they were nearly there, and the prospect of meeting them—of joining a married couple for tea—was so intimidating, so foreign and grown-up, that Hana felt hopelessly immature.  At least she wasn’t alone, she thought, with a glance at Roman.

“It’ll be fine.”  Though his own smile was less than assured, he squeezed her hand firmly.  “They’re nice.  Well…Sarah’s nice.  Jack ain’t nice, not by a long shot—”  Catching her look of trepidation he broke off.  “He’s a good guy, though.  And they’ll think you’re great, ’cause ya are.”  

Hana drew to a stop just outside the door.  From there she could see that a couple sat at a table near one of the front windows.  The woman was laughing, her eyes sparkling merrily, while the man gazed at her with nothing less than adoration.  As Hana looked on he picked up her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it; she said something in response, her expression just as loving as his.  The moment between them was so intimate and yet so easy, so effortless.  Hana pressed a hand against her stomach; the feeling inside was not only anxiety at the meeting, but a yearning that had been growing slowly, steadily stronger.

She looked over to see Roman watching her, his expression thoughtful.  “Ready?” he asked, and at her nod he swung open the door.

The couple darted up from their seats as they entered.  “Skittery!” the man crowed, surging forward to throw his arms around Roman and thump his back.

“You must be Hana!”  As the woman moved around the table to shake hands Hana saw that she was noticeably pregnant, just as Tumbler had said.  She was glowing, her face alight with an earnest smile.  “It’s so nice to meet you.  I’m Sarah, Sarah Kelly.”  If it were possible, her smile grew wider at the words.

“Nice to meet you, too.” 

“Jack Kelly.”  So this was the hero of Tumbler’s stories.  One arm still thrown around Roman’s shoulders, he offered a calloused, scarred hand.  Though the two men were about the same height, Jack seemed to take up more space; his presence was nearly palpable in the small restaurant.  It was the easiest thing in the world to picture him in the stories she’d heard, battling half a dozen thugs or giving a rabble-rousing speech.  As they shook hands she felt glad she’d first seen him in a quiet, humble moment; otherwise she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to even manage saying her own name. 

“I hope you don’t mind that we came in without you,” Sarah said as she settled back into her seat. 

“But I made her,” Jack went on, his hand light on her shoulder.  To his wife he said, “You don’t need to be on your feet if ya don’t have to.” 

“I’m fine, Jack.  And I’ll let you know if I’m not.”  She leaned into his touch, and the yearning twisted into a tiny stab of envy.

As she sat, Roman stayed standing behind his chair.  “Did ya order yet, or should I?” 

“Nah,” Jack said, grinning, “I wanted to give ya a chance to show off your waiterin’ skills.” 

“I’ll be expectin’ a big tip from ya.”  For some reason Jack looked delighted at this, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  Roman shook his head, biting his cheek to hide his own smile.  He addressed the ladies then: “Want anythin’ in particular?”

“It all looks so wonderful, I couldn’t decide,” Sarah confessed.  “We’ll trust your judgment.”  Hana agreed with a nod.

He crossed the room to the display cases, bending to peer at the baked goods within.  Mrs. Procházka came in from the back and the two chatted; he gestured to their table and then to the treats in front of him before returning to sit next to Hana.  He was soon followed by Mrs. Procházka herself, bearing a plate loaded with delicacies: swirled slices of nut-filled  _orechovník_ , crescent-shaped  _vanilkové rohlíčky_ ,  _koláče_  with bright apricot centers.  The tray her daughter carried held a teapot and cups.  Hana knew well enough that as Mrs. Procházka poured the red-tinted rosehip brew she was inspecting the new customers, and her expression was satisfied as she noted the thin gold band on Sarah’s hand and the gentle swell of her stomach.  Before retreating to the kitchen she patted Roman on the shoulder, beaming at him fondly. 

“Roman is Mrs. Procházka’s favorite customer,” Hana teased when the proprietress had gone.  

“Nah, I think Tumbler is.  That’s walnut,” he said, trying and failing not to look pleased, as Sarah studied a piece of  _orechovník_.  

Jack swallowed a bite of  _koláč_  before hoisting his teacup.  It looked dainty in his hand.  “I never heard o’ this place before.  You two come here a lot?”  He looked over the rim of the cup, eyes sliding between them.  As Roman’s mouth was conveniently full, she had to answer. 

“I have only been with Roman.  We come here for dessert, and he has brought cakes from here to my parents.”

Sarah’s eyes widened for just a second before she murmured, “How thoughtful.”  Jack’s expression was some combination of incredulous, curious, and amused. 

Roman coughed a little and sipped his drink.  “So where’s the hat, Cowboy?  Did ya lose it?” 

“Left it at the Jacobses’, wise a—guy.  Anyway, I don’t see you wearin’ your apron all over the place.”  He glanced at her, one corner of his mouth quirked up, and Hana realized that somehow he knew.  And then she realized the only way he could know. 

“ _Zabijem ho_ ,” she hissed under her breath. 

“Huh?” Jack noised, at the same time Roman, taken aback, asked with his mouth full, “Who?”

“I said ‘I will kill him,’” she clarified for the Kellys’ benefit.  To Roman she said, “Your brother—”  She delivered a poke to his bicep.  “—has been telling tales about me.”  Jack blinked, then guffawed.

“Ya can’t blame the kid for wantin’ to talk about ya.”  It was clear his charming grin had been the model for Tumbler’s.  “He hasn’t had much chance to observe a real live young lady close up before, ya know?  And it’s obvious he likes ya.”  It would have taken a heart of stone not to feel flattered by the praise, and she felt some of her chagrin melt away.

“What’s he been sayin’?”  Roman had gone pink and still, his voice tense.  He glowered when Jack merely laughed. 

Sarah sighed her husband’s name chidingly.  “My brother Les writes to us about what all of the boys are up to,” she explained.  “It’s a hazard of keeping company with newsies—they can’t seem to stop telling stories, even when they’re done selling papers.”  She shot a warning glance at Jack, who managed to rein in his mirth.  “Have you met any of the others yet, Hana?”

“Just Roman and Tumbler, and Les.  Oh, and Blink.”  She wasn’t sure if the newsboy she’d asked directions to Tibby’s from counted as one of “the others.” 

“We heard about when ya met Blink,” Jack said, smirking.  “Tell that Pauline I said hey, would ya?”

“He was hoping he’d get a chance to shake her hand while we were here.”

“Imagine if we’d had her with us durin’ the strike!  There’d be scabbers fallin’ left and right under her trusty hatpin.”

Despite the amiable conversation flowing around him Roman’s jaw remained tight, his nostrils flared.  She reached over and laid her hand on his elbow; she wished she could take his hand, but it was clenched on his thigh.  At her touch he looked over.  She knew the worried lines around his eyes were as much for her sake as his own, and that knowledge magnified her feeling of helplessness—surely there had to be something more she could do than just  _look_  at him and run her thumb back and forth on his arm.  Even so, his expression slowly softened, and she felt the tension beneath her fingers ebb.  Jack and Sarah exchanged glances.

After a beat Sarah tactfully changed the topic.  “Skittery—uh, Roman?”  His shrug, though indifferent, was more relaxed, and Hana drew back, folding her hands in her lap.  “—says you’re from Slovakia.  I have to admit, I don’t know much about it.”

“No one in America does, unless they are from there.”  Just another reason she’d been lucky to find him.  “Especially because nowadays we are made to be part of the Kingdom of Hungary.  They try to make us like them, to speak Hungarian only.  Revúca had the first high school teaching in Slovak, but then it is closed, so that we cannot learn in our own language.  They give new names to towns, and change family names, and take Slovak children with no families to make into Hungarians.  But we are Slovaks still, and we call our home Slovakia, not Upper Hungary.”

Politics was not a topic for polite conversation among ladies, as she’d heard Mrs. Vande Kerk tell her daughters more than once (apparently one should aspire to say nothing of consequence altogether, rather than be thought impolite).  She was surprised at herself for bringing it up with so little prompting.  It was a relief that their reactions were not the disinterest or discomfort she feared, though Sarah shook her head wearily.  “It’s similar in Poland, but with the Russians instead of Hungarians.”

“At least Russian is something like Polish.”  Hana shuddered nonetheless. “We—Poles and Slovaks—we are not bad people.  What is so wrong with our language, our customs?”

“It’s nothin’ about you; it’s about power,” Jack said.  He was more serious than he’d been yet, leaning forward and fixing his gaze on her; this was Jack Kelly the leader, the man of convictions.  “Some people think it’s alright to step on whoever they want, so long as it means they get more money, and more land, and more power.”

“People should be free to decide for themselves what their lives and their countries will be like.  A foreign government has no right to step in and dictate how people live.  And stripping them—you—of your language and customs?  It isn’t fair,” Sarah protested.  

Roman’s answering laugh was entirely humorless.  “The world ain’t never fair, in case ya forgot.  We just had a couple o’ businessmen against us; how’s anybody s’posed to fight a whole country?”

Whatever Jack’s retort would have been was cut off by Sarah, who rounded on Roman with flashing eyes.  “Did you know about this?” 

“Me?  No!”  He reared back, hands thrown up to show himself blameless.  “I grew up two hundred miles away from her.  Far as I know, there’s no Hungarians in Bohemia.  Or Russians.”

It was far from the point of the conversation, but a detail caught her attention.  “Two hundred miles?”  She hadn’t known the distance, had only a rough idea from Mr. Roth’s globe.  It was less than the distance to Pittsburgh, and yet they’d traveled so much further.

His eyes slid to her and then away as his cheeks pinked.  “I looked it up,” he mumbled.  She blinked, and her lips parted, though to say what even she didn’t know.  With a slightly pained glance at the couple sitting opposite them, he swung around to face her, a hand palm up on his knee in invitation or supplication; this time she did not hesitate to take it.  When he spoke next his voice was still quiet, though the words were clear.  “I wanted to see how far away we were back there.  It didn’t look like so much, ya know, just a couple o’ inches on the map, but…”  He looked down at their hands for a second, then back to her face.  “I’d rather be this close to you.”  

Warmth flooded her chest, and again she felt that pull, followed it to lean toward him.  It was rude to exclude the others on purpose, but at the moment she was hardly thinking of them.  Nor could she take her eyes off of his lips.  “ _Chcem ťa pobozkať_.”

His eyes darkened; the corners of his mouth turned up.  Not for the first time it struck her how dangerous he was: considerate and sweet at one moment and then irresistibly magnetic the next.  The heat kindled low in her stomach had nothing to do with the tea, and everything to do with his hand in hers and his rough, low voice.  “I like the sound of that.”

The quiet was broken by Jack slurping at his cup.  The tension simmering between the two broke; Roman cleared his throat and shifted to face forward again, though he didn’t let go of her hand.  When she looked up, Hana was met with Sarah’s sympathetic face.

“It sounds like you loved it, even if things weren’t easy,” she said, as if neither the burgeoning debate nor the intimate interlude had happened.  Her voice had grown gentle, though the curiosity was undisguised.  “What does it look like there?  Is it very different from New York?”

Hana laughed, and it loosened the lump of longing—for him, for home—in her throat.  “It is like another world.”  Where to begin describing a place so foreign and yet so familiar?  She called a picture of it into her mind.  “My town was in a valley in the foothills.  It was so green—the whole country was so green, and very beautiful.  And I think…time is different there.  Where we lived there are still mostly farms, and shepherds, and wooden houses, and, hmm—”  She squeezed Roman’s hand.  “ _Medvede?_ ”

He scratched the nape of his neck.  “Uh, bears, maybe?”

Turning to the others, she raised her free hand, fingers curved like claws.  “The big brown animal with large teeth who sleeps in winter.”

“Sounds like a bear to me,” Jack said.

“Yes.  Where I was born there are still bears in the woods, and here are street cars.”  Even Bratislava, once the capital of the entire empire, was not as crowded and bustling as New York.  There really was no place else like it.

An adventurous gleam had lit in Jack’s eyes.  He turned to Sarah, a slice of  _orechovník_  in hand and a roguish tilt to his lips.  “Think there are any bears up in Valhalla?”

“I doubt it, T.R..  We’re not  _that_  far from the city.”

“Hey, I never said I wanted to shoot ’em.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes.  “You cannot rope a bear, Jack.”

“Never know until you try,” he said cheerfully.

“Speakin’ of wild animals,” Roman cut in, “how’s Nell doin’?”

If pressed, she could not be sure that Jack’s face shone brighter when looking at his wife or talking about his horse.  He beamed at Roman, clearly pleased that he’d asked, before launching into a recitation of a recent escapade with a blackberry bush.  “You should come up an’ see her,” he concluded.  “Both o’ ya.  It’s good to get outside the city, get some fresh air.”

“And if you miss green fields and trees, we’ve got plenty of them.”

She’d almost forgotten what fresh air was like.  Roman nodded distractedly, and for a moment she imagined a trip to the countryside with him.  It would only be possible if they were—  No matter that she tried not to think it; the idea was already solidly anchored in her head, thanks to Tumbler.  She wished he’d never said anything, joking or not.

The Kellys went on talking, describing their work and the boys they looked after, and Hana devoted herself to listening.  There would be ample time to think about herself later.

* * *

Jack insisted on settling the bill with Mrs. Procházka, and the others left the restaurant, standing under the awning until he joined them and then ambling down the block at a leisurely pace.  Since they’d met up Roman had been studying every gesture Jack made, every word he said.  It was not subtle, but it took longer for Jack to react than she might have guessed.  “ _What_ , Skittery?” he finally snapped, exasperated.

“Dunno.”  Roman rubbed his chin and pointedly looked his friend up and down.  “It’s just, I haven’t seen ya in a while, an’ I thought maybe you’d be more different.  Since ya got a good responsible job an’ a kid comin’ an’ everythin’.”

Jack flashed a near-feral grin.  “Don’t worry, I ain’t changed that much.  I could still soak ya.”

Crossing his arms, Roman snorted a laugh.  “Since when could you soak me?”

Jack dropped into a crouch, fists raised, and jabbed playfully at him.  Still chuckling Roman dodged, then returned punches of his own.  Jack caught him around the neck, free fist slugging into his stomach one last time as Roman patted his back. 

Sarah’s face bore a smile as she watched the pair scuffle in the street.  “Even though we’re surrounded by kids on the farm, he still misses his boys sometimes.”  Her eyes swept up and down the block, from the wagon unloading barrels outside a shop to the women who had paused for a chat a few doors down.  Hana wondered if she missed the city—not just her family and friends, but the buildings, the clatter, the variety.  “You two really understand each other.”

“Mostly, yes.  Though sometimes the words are not so similar in Czech and Slovak.”

She laughed, but kindly.  “I didn’t mean just that.  I meant…”  She paused to think.  “Sometimes I think Jack knows me better than I know myself, and he’s said the same thing.  There are things we can say without words, and things that we don’t have to explain, because we’ve both lived them.  You and Skittery have that.”

So much had happened in his life that she had no experience with—the loss, the loneliness, the hardship.  Still, for every time she’d wondered what he was thinking, there were a handful when she just  _knew_  what he meant, or how he was feeling.  Though years apart, they’d crossed the same ocean; they’d seen the stars arc above a far-off land.  And now with him she’d already learned so much, done so many things she couldn’t imagine doing with anyone else.  

“He looks happy,” Sarah added.

“I hope he is.”  More than that, she prayed now that it was true.

Her grin was impish.  “I’ve known him since I was seventeen, and I’ve never seen him looking the way he does today.”  Her expression sobered as she regarded Hana.  “Are  _you_  happy?”

As she mulled over the question, Hana watched Roman and Jack.  The latter’s arm was still around the former’s neck; Roman’s head was cocked, listening intently to whatever Jack had to say.  He glanced up and when their gazes locked he smiled lopsidedly, his eyes crinkling.  He  _did_  look happy, she thought, smiling in return, her heart full.  Then Jack said something that caught his attention and Roman’s head jerked toward Jack, his eyebrows raised in incredulity.

Was she happy?  At that moment, she was.  And when that moment had passed? 

When she got home, her parents would be waiting for her.  On Monday she would go to work at a job that she was good at, honest labor that she took pride in.  In the evening, she might sit on the steps with Pauline and pore over the dresses in  _The Delineator_.  She had a good life.  Even before Roman, and Tumbler, it had been a good life.  Now it was even better. 

“I am.”

“Good.  You deserve to be, as much as anyone else.”  Sarah looked down at her stomach, resting one hand atop it.  “It’s work, loving someone like Jack.  He hasn’t had an easy life, and there are things from his past that will always stay with him, no matter how much he’d like to leave them behind.  But even though it takes more patience than I thought I had, it’s worth it.  Most days,” she added, chuckling. 

A hundred questions crowded her mouth, all of them selfish and callow and premature.  Anything she asked Sarah would answer, without laughter or judgment; even from their brief acquaintance she could tell that much.  But though she may be willing, Sarah couldn’t answer what she didn’t know.  There was only one question that really mattered, and only two people would be able to answer it, when the time was right. 

“Are there any apple trees on your farm?” she asked. 

* * *

Sarah stepped back into the restaurant to choose some treats to take to her family, and asked Roman to help her decide.  Jack and Hana remained outside. 

“I’m glad we got to meet ya,” he said.  “I gotta admit, since Les told us about Skittery’s girl, I’ve been real curious.  It’s an honor.”

“Me?”  She couldn’t help feeling flustered.  “But…you are friends with the president!”

He laughed.  “He ain’t exactly invited us down to visit the White House.  You, on the other hand, manage to put the grumpiest fella on Duane Street in a good mood.  Wish he’d met ya years ago.”  His mouth opened to say something else, but then a thoughtful look crossed his face and he paused.  At her expectant expression he smiled.  “I was gonna say look out for Skitts, but you already do that.  Thanks,” he added.  “I’m glad to know someone’s watchin’ out for him and Tumbler.  So since I don’t gotta ask you to do that, instead I’m gonna say…have fun with him.”

Surely he couldn’t be suggesting…—but then she wasn’t sure, not completely.  “Respectable” hadn’t been one of the words Tumbler used to describe him, or “prudent.”

At her widened eyes he muttered, “Where’s Dave when ya need him?”  He scrubbed a hand across his face.  “What I mean to say is, make him laugh.  He worries too much, ya know, an’ it ain’t good for him.  Just show him that it’s okay—that you an’ him, an’ Tumbler, you’re all okay.  That it’s safe to be happy.”  His gaze drifted from her to Sarah, just coming out of the restaurant, and the look on his face, sweet and joyful, more than convinced her that he meant well.

Roman handed a box to Jack.  “Compliments of the chef,” he said; Jack tried to peer in, despite the string holding it closed. 

“Yeah?  Thanks.”  Roman just shrugged, a slight smile playing on his lips. 

“And look.”  Sarah held up a card with the address printed on one side and penciled handwriting on the other.  “She wrote down what we got, in case Mama and Papa want to come get more.”

“Good sellin’ strategy.”  Jack nodded and lifted the box, sniffing it to try to determine what pastries were inside.  When he noticed the others staring he slowly lowered it, looking chagrined. 

Roman smirked.  “You better get those home before he chews through the package.”

Sarah surprised her with a warm hug.  “If you ever need someone to commiserate with about reformed newsboys, you’re welcome to write me.”  She stepped back and laughed, “Tumbler can get you the address.”  Jack shook her hand, tipping her a wink; Hana smiled widely in return.  Once he released her hand he all but tackled Roman, catching him in a bear hug and whispering in his ear.  Roman laughed and squeezed him back. 

Then, calling goodbyes, the Kellys left.  The box dangled from Jack’s right hand, the string looped around one finger; much more securely, his left held Sarah’s.  Watching them go Hana felt it must be impossible not to wish for the kind of relationship they had, the respect and trust and adoration they each showed for the other.  Then she thought maybe she need not wish for it after all. 

When they’d disappeared into the crowd Roman touched her elbow, and she looked up at him.  “You were wrong,” she said playfully, “Jack is nice.  They both are.”  He pulled a face.

“Sure.  But I was also wrong when I said ya were great.”  Hana’s heart sank—until he went on, “You’re  _amazin_ ’.”

Acting on impulse, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips close to the corner of his mouth.  This near to him she could hear his breath catch. 

“ _Ještě jeden?_ ” he murmured, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. 

Her heart skipped at the request for another.  His fingertips skimmed up the back of her arm, from elbow to shoulder and back again.  Between the touch and the request there was no way to stop a shiver from coursing through her. _Daj pozor_ , she warned herself; if she gave in and he turned his head their lips would meet, right there on the street, for Mrs. Procházka and everyone to see.  It wasn’t much of a deterrent, as the prospect once feared was all too welcome now that she knew exactly how thrilling his embrace was.  He did not move, though, and her next kiss landed on his cheek, a safe distance from his lips.

She felt him grinning before she moved away.  “ _A ještě jeden?_ ”

“ _Nie!_ ” she giggled, stepping back.

“ _Ne?_ ”  He clutched his heart, staggering back in mock hurt.  Then he changed tactics, hands clasped before his chest, lower lip protruding with a plaintive “ _Prosím tě?_ ”

She skipped out of reach, laughing giddily, and he repeated his plea as he followed.  When finally she slowed he caught up in a few long strides.  His arm went around her shoulders, drawing her close, and his lips pressed against her temple.  After a moment he made to move away, but she looped her arm around his waist.  So he resettled his arm around her and they walked home that way, careless of any passers-by, content with being together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orechovník = a pastry made of a rectangular sheet of dough filled with chopped walnuts and then rolled up and served in slices
> 
> vanilkové rohlíčky = crescent-shaped cookies, covered with sugar
> 
> koláče (singular koláč) = cake(s), but unlike American cake these are made from dough, not batter, and come as small individual units with a central well of some kind of filling, often fruit but also cheese or poppy seed 
> 
> Zabijem ho = I will kill him
> 
> medvede = bears
> 
> Chcem ťa pobozkať = I want to kiss you
> 
> Daj pozor = Be careful, watch out (daj is an imperative in second person singular, so it’s a phrase with an understood “you” as the subject)
> 
> [A] ještě jeden = [And] another one
> 
> Nie/ne = no
> 
> Prosím tě = please; just plain prosím is generally used for please, and adding the “you” element (tě) makes it more personal
> 
> Thus far I haven’t said anything about the fact that Slovakia did not exist as an independent country at this point in Hana’s life. She’s going to have to wait until after World War I for Czechoslovakia to be formed. HOWEVER, just because SK was technically part of Austro-Hungary doesn’t mean that there weren’t people trying to form a Slovak nation. I assume that many people would think of themselves as Slovaks rather than Austro-Hungarians. 
> 
> US census records note a variety of places of birth for people from what is now SK; for example, from the 1900 census these include “Austria,” “Hungary,” “Austria Hungary,” and “Poland Austria.” Meanwhile, the Kučeras (Kucera/Kuchera) who were born abroad were mainly recorded as having been born in “Bohemia,” though there are also some that say “Austria,” “Hungary,” “Poland Ger,” and “Moravia.” One Thomas Kuchera was born At Sea in 1863. That’s cool.
> 
> The high school in Revúca is kind of a big deal. Opened in 1862, it was the first high school (gymnázium) in the whole country where students were taught in the Slovak language. I don’t know for sure what language(s) students had to learn in before then; if pressed, I’d say Hungarian, German, and/or Latin. 
> 
> Look into Ľudovít Štúr, the man with the most famous beard in Slovak history, if you’re really interested in the codification of the Slovak language. He based standardized Slovak on the Central Slovak dialect, which happens to be Hana’s native dialect.
> 
> The attempt to make ethnic Slovaks more like the ruling Hungarians was known as Magyarization. This is because the Hungarian name for Hungary is Magyarország (Maďarsko in Slovak). As one might imagine, ethnic Slovaks were not too keen on having their culture put down in favor of a foreign one. 
> 
> The entry for “Slavs in America” in the Catholic Encyclopedia (1911) includes this in its discussion of Magyarization: “Inequalities of every kind before the law were devised for the undoing of the Slovaks and turning them into Hungarians; so much so that one of their authors likened them to the Irish in their troubles.” This is not one of the times when you want to be compared to the Irish. 
> 
> After the Great War, Hungary lost some of its territory to the newly-formed Czechoslovakia under the Treaty of Trianon. They didn’t appreciate that. To this day there is a stereotype that Slovaks and Hungarians don’t like each other, based at least in part on these historical events. 
> 
> As the crow flies, there are about 251 miles between Revúca and Tábor. On actual roads it’s closer to 370 and would take about six and a half hours to drive (or around 10 hours via bus).
> 
> What are the odds that Hana knows “Upper Hungary” in English but not “bears”? Think of it this way: in New York City, you’d probably learn “upper” pretty easily, and “Hungary” if you have neighbors from there, or keep up with international news; but unless you’re hanging out at the zoo, you’re not likely to see many bears.
> 
> As noted in previous footnotes, I only know (a very little) about modern Slovak and Czech. There may have been less divergence between the two languages back then than there is now, so maybe Hana and Skitts could understand each other perfectly all of the time.
> 
> Vanilkové rohlíčky are more Christmas cookies than year-round, but Mrs. Procházka has discovered that cookies sell well, particularly to children, and they’re easier to eat than things like buchty, so she makes them more often than people probably would in the Old Country.
> 
> JACK: “If pressed, she could not be sure that Jack’s face shone brighter when looking at his wife or talking about his horse.”
> 
> Well, what can I say? They’re my two best girls!
> 
> (Hana’s pretty interestin’ too.)


	24. Kvety (9 July 1904)

Mrs. Roth favored arrangements rich in color, jewel-like spikes of gladiolus and globes of ranunculus.  Mr. Roth brought her bouquets of tulips streaked one hue into another, or roses whose scent filled the room from their place on her dressing table.  The Vande Kerks’ tastes, on the other hand, ran more to delicacy.  Only the palest of colors, maidenly pinks and soft lilacs and sunbeam yellows, crossed their threshold; but to complement the misses’ couture, to tuck in their coiffures, only white flowers—lilies, camellias, magnolias, and the like—would do.  

The gardenias were her favorite, frivolous though they were.  They bruised at a touch, their creamy petals easily marred; but the smell! oh, the smell of them was worth the care and expense—more than worth it to Hana, who enjoyed it free of charge. 

Sometimes, though, the scent turned cloying on her tongue, thickening in her throat when she remembered that she only knew the flower’s name in English, that it was pretension for her to love something so costly.  She did not deserve hothouse flowers—and did not need them, and should not want them.  At times she wondered if bending her head to breathe in their scent was covetousness, worried that she would love her homeland’s wildflowers the less if she ever saw them again.  So she closed her eyes and pictured many-rayed sunflowers, snowdrops and crocus after the thaw, springtime blossoms of orchard and vine, clusters of elderflowers destined for syrup, sanguine crepe-petaled poppies and gentle forget-me-nots as the perfume of gardenias filled her lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: Skitts just yelled at me for not sharin’ this one sooner, but is it my fault if it made me wanna run off an’ find some flowers for Sarah?!


	25. Scraps (17 July 1904)

“They’re sales samples,” Pauline explained, “from the summer before last.”  Sure enough, the mill’s name was printed on the cardboard flaps that held the little rectangles of fabric together.  “I like them, but I haven’t any need to keep them.”

They were the soothing colors of ladies’ day dresses, pastel calicos and printed bouquets.  And they were soft, far finer weaves than the Kollárs could afford.  Each piece was just about the size of her hand—not even large enough to serve as a handkerchief—but there were dozens of them, making the booklet three inches thick.  All together they couldn’t make up a blouse, let alone a skirt; but there was likely enough fabric to piece a pillowcase, or a very small blanket. 

Hana stroked a bit of green-and-cream striped cotton with a fingertip.  “Can I have it?”  

“You’re welcome to it,” Pauline said warmly.  “I know it will come to good use with you.”

Unlike her mother, Hana had little patience for sewing.  Still, she applied herself to the project with a will, and before too long was able to unveil the result to her friend, pride and nervousness mingling as she spread it out.

“It’s charming!  And just the right size for a crib.”  Pauline looked up from the corner where Hana had stitched the year and, with eyes dancing, asked, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Hana’s face inflamed as she snatched the quilt back.  “Hush,” she snapped, but weakly, and focused on folding her handiwork.  “It will be a present.” 

“If you insist.” 

She draped the folded quilt over her forearm.  “I have to go find Tumbler,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.  Pauline waved her off, still giggling, and Hana marched to the door.  There she announced, “I will tell Kid Blink you miss him,” and, grinning, closed the door on Pauline’s cry of protest.

* * *

“Can you help me with something?”

Tumbler heaved a sigh that shook his narrow frame.  His reluctance was somewhat at odds with the curiosity apparent even as he squinted at the wrapped parcel she held.  “I guess,” he answered, far from enthusiastic. 

“This is for Sarah and Jack.”  Against her expectation, his expression darkened.  Puzzled, she went on nonetheless.  “Do you know where they are staying?”

“Yeah, with Les an’ Dave an’ their parents, all squashed in together,” he groused.  “I told Jack he should come stay at Duane Street, but he said he didn’t think Kloppman’d let him, since he ain’t a newsboy no more.”  His shoulders drooped.

“Would you please take me there?” 

“I’m s’posed to meet Les in a little while,” he said dully.  “He can take it to ’em.”

When Les arrived she was introduced to what was clearly a longstanding ritual as each boy spit into his palm before shaking hands with a solemn air.  Without the expectoration it would have been as serious a greeting as any between fellow businessmen.  Before Tumbler had even finished asking, Les was already inviting them both back to the apartment. 

“Mama an’ Sarah are out shopping,” he informed them scornfully, “but Jack an’ David might be back.  They went to lunch with Mr. Denton today.”

This update on his hero’s movements did not appease Tumbler, who walked with hands jammed deep in his pockets.  Maybe she shouldn’t have asked him—but he’d sold most of his papers by the time she’d found him, and he’d never seemed opposed to spending time with her before.  As they walked she fretted over his mood, trying to figure out what she could have done to offend him so.  Whatever it was hadn’t been bad enough to eclipse his desire to see Jack, though.

Les, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by his friend’s silence.  “How come you didn’t get Skittery to help ya deliver that?” he asked Hana, nodding at the bundle she hugged to her midsection.  “What is it, anyway?”

“It is a blanket I made for the baby.”  Tumbler grumbled and Les scoffed; their noises gave her time to think of an answer to Les’ first question.  The truth was that she didn’t want Roman to know she’d made the blanket.  It had been meant as a simple gesture in thanks for the Kellys’ hospitality and kindness; but now she felt the parcel weighed down with unintended innuendo.  She didn’t want Roman to get the wrong idea, to think that she was in any rush, that she wanted more than he did.  Her stomach roiled and she shifted the package in her arms, wishing rather hopelessly that he wouldn’t hear about any of this.  “He was at work,” she said finally.

Tumbler glared down at the sidewalk and mumbled something.  Les looked at the other boy and then shot her an apologetic glance before hurrying forward.

The building he led them into was much like her own though perhaps older, the banister wobbly, the hallway’s wallpaper water-stained.  Les pushed open a door, calling “Jack?  David?”

“We’re here,” answered an unfamiliar voice.  

Jack sat at a table with another young man who could only be David.  Tumbler rushed to Jack, though when he reached his side he seemed at a loss; Jack threw an arm around his shoulders with ease and some of the sadness drained from his face.

“Hana!  How ya doin’?” Jack asked. 

“Fine, thank you.”

He waved her in, then reached over to squeeze his companion’s shoulder.  “This is my best pal an’ brother-in-law, David Jacobs.  Davey, this is Hana…”

“Kollár.”  She smiled shyly at the other man.

“Aha,” he said.  It was an unusual response, and one that would have put her on her guard had she not known what incurable gossips newsies could be.  Despite the keenness of his eyes, his tone was affable as he said, “ _Dzień dobry_.”  

Aha, she thought, cocking her head to one side.  “ _Dobrý deň_.”

“ _Czy rozumiesz po polsku?_ ”

“ _Trochu_.”  Though she wiggled her hand to indicate the variable and unreliable nature of her understanding he grinned.

“You gettin’ any of this?” Jack asked the boys by his side.  Les shrugged as Tumbler shook his head.  Jack looked from Hana to David and said, “How’s about English for us dummies?”

“Sorry,” she said.  David, on the other hand, merely rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he granted magnanimously.  Then his attention was caught by the package, and his eyebrows rose.  He looked so childlike and eager that she wanted to laugh.

“This is for you and Sarah, for the baby.”  At the last word his face brightened still further, and he leapt to his feet.  The boys stumbled into each other in his wake. 

“She made it,” Les put in as a scowling Tumbler shoved him away. 

Jack took the proffered gift with something approaching reverence.  “Ya didn’t have to do anythin’.  We already liked ya fine,” he added with a cheeky smile.

“Oh.  Then—”  She reached out as if to reclaim the gift, and he laughed.

“Thanks,” he said, giving it a surreptitious squeeze.  With obvious reluctance he set the package on the table.  “Guess I oughtta wait ’til Sarah’s back to open it.  C’mon, let’s go up to the roof.  If I can’t see it, maybe I won’t want to open it.” 

He led the way out a window and up a fire escape, the boys at his heels.  David followed but she remained in place, unsure whether the invitation had included her, and whether she ought to accept if it had.

David paused, one hand on the window frame.  “Aren’t you coming?”  

“I don’t think I should.”  Her mouth felt dry all of a sudden; she swallowed thickly before she confided, “I think Tumbler is mad at me.”

His mouth twisted wryly and he turned away from the window.  “I think—this is just a hunch, but I think he’s probably jealous.  Skittery’s got a girl, and then Jack comes home, but all anybody wants to talk about is the baby…”

Her eyes widened even as her heart sank.  The last thing she ever wanted was to separate the brothers, and she hadn’t thought she was.  Now it seemed she’d been mistaken. 

“I mean, I could be wrong,” he went on, “but before Les was born I wasn’t too happy about the idea of not being the baby anymore.  Not that I was a baby anymore at that point.”  His smile was a little embarrassed.  “But Tumbler’s been one of the youngest of the newsies—his family—for a while now, and it’s possible that right now he sees this as a loss, rather than a gain.”  He half-shrugged, diffidently.

She’d always thought that the larger the family, the better: more people to share the work, more to lean on in difficult times.  Even surrounded by aunts and cousins, uncles and grandparents, her place had never felt precarious.  But she hadn’t lost her family as Tumbler had, however he had; she’d never been on her own, or had to find her own way.  She feared she would never understand how he felt, and feared how it might come between them.

“Anyway, you’re welcome to come up.  It’s not a bad view of the city up there.  But if you want to go, I understand.”

Though Jack and Les glanced over as she stepped onto the roof, Tumbler steadfastly ignored her.  Then the three went on with their impromptu boxing lesson and Hana shaded her eyes to admire the view, trying to ignore the heaviness of her heart.

It got easier as she talked with David.  He was curious, those blue eyes bright as he asked about where she was from and how she’d gotten to New York and why they’d stayed in the city when her brother had already established himself in Pittsburgh.  Her father was no miner, nor a steel worker; he had no experience in such dangerous work, and feared being forced into such work—or excluded from any other—simply because of his ethnicity.  In New York they felt free, she explained, and David smiled, looking southward.

“‘And her name Mother of Exiles,’” he murmured.  Then he talked about Poland, the way his tongue had felt thick and slow in his mouth as he struggled to learn the language, the way the sun flashed on the river as he fished with his cousin.  Soon they were comparing their two languages; his expression was satisfied each time the Slovak and Polish words were similar, but the divergences bewildered him.

“Wait, so ‘yes’ is  _áno_?”

“Yes.”

“But in Polish ‘yes’ is  _tak_.”

“And in Slovak  _tak_  means ‘so.’”

He clutched fistfuls of curls.  “That’s…that makes no sense!”

The distant clang of a bell cut through her chuckles.  “I should go,” she said, standing.

“Ugh.  Right, just leave me with this linguistic conundrum.  I guess I’ll be stopping by the library during lunch tomorrow…  This was fun,” he told her. 

“Yes, I see.”  She glanced at the state of his head with a smile that made him grimace anew as he smoothed a hand through his hair.

Then she looked over at the others and sighed.  Jack was on one knee, a hand on Tumbler’s shoulder; she saw his eyes flick toward them and back, at which Les joined them.  “Come on,” David said, tousling his brother’s hair, “we’ll wait downstairs.”  As she stepped over the side she just barely heard Tumbler mumble, “I wish ya didn’t have to go away again, Cowboy.” 

The indecision she’d felt before returned in the family’s apartment; she was torn between wanting to escape her mounting unease and knowing that it would be rude to leave without saying goodbye to Jack.  Meanwhile David had taken a book down from a shelf and sat at the table with a pen and paper.  “This will just take a minute,” he said without looking up from whatever he was writing.  So she stayed, inching closer to the broom with each passing moment, longing for the purpose she felt while cleaning.

Before she reached the broom Jack ducked through the window, rubbing an eye.  As he straightened and saw her he pasted on a smile. 

“Is he okay?” 

The mask dissolved.  He glanced upward and shrugged.  “He’ll be alright.”  It did not answer the question she’d asked and both of them knew it.  He studied her face for a moment; she lifted her chin to meet his gaze, even as she wrung her hands.  No matter what he saw in her face, she had no doubt he noticed her fidgeting, could divine her every weakness.  

When he spoke again it was with a much more genuine smile.  “Thanks for comin’ by.  An’ for the present; Sarah’s gonna love it.” 

She smiled faintly.  “You do not even know what it is.” 

“Nope,” he said, “but I know Sarah.”  And that, at least, was unarguable. 

David joined them then.  “She’ll be back soon, if you want to give it to her in person.  Of course, then you’d have to meet my mother, too.  And then she’d find out I didn’t even  _try_  to feed you.”  His eyes went wide in mock horror, though his lips twitched with a smile. 

“I understand,” she said, nodding sagely.  “I will go so you will not be in trouble.”  She turned to the other man.  “Goodbye, Jack.” 

He shook her hand.  “Bye, Hana.”

David walked with her to the door, where he handed her a piece of paper covered in meticulous cursive.  A glance revealed its title to be  _The New Colossus_.  “What I said before, about the ‘Mother of Exiles’?  It’s in there.”  He nodded at the poem.  “Emma Lazarus wrote it to raise money for the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty, but it’s about more than that.  It’s about welcoming and…”  He caught himself and chuckled.  “Well, you’ll see.”

She hoped she would.  Even so, it was nice that he thought she’d understand—especially today, when she felt she understood so little.  Nodding, she tucked the paper away carefully. 

“You’re welcome back any time,” he said, then added hopefully, “ _Do widzenia_.”

“ _Dovidenia_ ,” she replied, and caught his triumphant grin before he closed the door.

When she stepped down from the curb at the corner Tumbler fell in beside her.  He didn’t say anything so neither did she; but she noticed that his eyes were red, and his face somewhat cleaner than before, as if it had been halfheartedly scrubbed.  The silence between them continued all the way to her building, where he slumped against the railing along the stoop.  He ran a toe over the edge of a step, and still refused to look at her.  Yet he had stopped; he could have kept walking, could have left without waiting for her.  There was hope there yet. 

“Thank you for taking me,” she ventured.  “It was nice of you to help me.”  The words were not enough, not strong enough or exact enough.  His response was a shrug, the gesture nigh impossible to read.  Hands fisted in her skirt, she fought off a wave of weariness and frustration and despair to try again.  “Would you stay and have dinner with us?  Please?” 

“You want  _me_  hangin’ around?” he spat, so bitterly that she stepped backward.  “Sure ya don’t just want Skitts instead?” 

“I want you both around,” she said, quiet and steady, “for as long as you want to be.”  There was no reason for him to feel left out or lonely, and she would do whatever she could to make sure he didn’t.  “Mama will be happy if you eat with us.  And Tatko—he will be happy, and I will be very happy.”  She raised one hand to her heart; at last he peeked up. 

He pursed his lips, apparently weighing his options.   When she realized she had no idea what his options were, her earlier fear threatened to rise again; the hand over her heart clenched into a fist and she felt stronger in moving, in doing.

At length he met her gaze.  “I guess I could,” he allowed, cocking his head.  His eyes seemed brighter now.  “If it’d make ya that happy.”

“But what about you?”  Her fist tightened; her heart squeezed.  “Would it make you happy, too?”

Finally he smiled, a tiny, fledgling thing.  “Yeah.”  

“Then come on,” she said, and up they went, to her mother’s hearty stew and her father’s thoughtful attention and the feeling of threads pulling tighter, a patchwork coming together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dzień dobry / Dobrý deň = Hello (“good day” if you want to be super literal) 
> 
> Czy rozumiesz po polsku? = You understand Polish?
> 
> Trochu = a bit
> 
> Do widzenia / Dovidenia = Goodbye
> 
> JACK: In which we get a present and Tumbs gets mad.


	26. Hats (19 July 1904)

On their return from an evening stroll, Roman followed her into the apartment.  The sight of him taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair was one she thought she’d never grow tired of.  Unfortunately, removing her own hat was not so simple—and it was just a straw boater, not even one of the large feather-bedecked hats that fashionable ladies favored.  

“You are lucky,” she said, reaching up to pull free the pins; he stepped forward with a palm open, and she dropped them into his hand as she removed them.  “You just put your hat on and take it off again whenever you want.  You don’t have to worry about pins.”

“I like ya better without a hat anyway,” he said.  The revelation wasn’t much of a surprise, since he’d complimented her hair before; still, she melted whenever he said something sweet.  Then his smile turned mischievous.  “Means ya don’t got any o’ these to stab me with.”

She rolled her eyes and took off the hat.  Plucking the long, sharp pins from his hand, she stuck them through the hatband for safekeeping, reminding him, “If you are good you don’t have to be afraid of being stabbed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hana tossed the boater on the settee and picked up Roman’s cap.  It had seen better days; the brown tweed was a bit faded, and the brim had been peaked to a point from which it would never recover.  But unlike hers, it was able to stay in place without the intervention of metal rods, and that was a point in its favor.  Over his protests about its age and cleanliness she tugged the cap on.  It didn’t fit well over her pompadour, so she set about tucking her hair inside the hat as best she could.  When she’d done all she could she turned to Roman, who was watching her with eyebrows raised.

“How does it look?”  She didn’t wait for an answer, instead planting fists at her waist and adopting a tough expression.  With her voice lowered in imitation of the boys she offered, “Penny a pape, sir.”  The sales pitch wasn’t as smooth as Tumbler’s, slowed as it was by her accent; all the same he laughed, shaking his head. 

“There are girls who sell, too, ya know, an’ none of ’em dress up as boys.”  He paused, frowning slightly, and then added, “Least, not as far as I know.  It’s New York, after all; anythin’s possible.”

When she tipped her head back to look at him her hair threatened to cast off its covering; she clapped her hand to the cap’s crown to keep it in place.  It appeared the problem was not the hat after all, but the hair.  There was no help for that.

“Look at this mug,” he went on, chucking her under the chin.  The amusement on his face softened into something almost tender.  “Adorable.  I’d buy anythin’ that face’s sellin’—even the  _Journal_.”

From a fellow who’d sold the  _World_ , this had to be high praise indeed.  Roman looked her over, his gaze starting at the hat and trailing down.  It warmed her all through, even as goosebumps rose on her skin. 

“In fact,” he said, looping one arm around her waist, “it happens you got somethin’ I want.  How much for a kiss?”

She shook her head.  “Those are not for sale, sorry.”

“Alright.  Then how ’bout a trade?”

“Hmm.”  She tapped her chin in thought for a moment, wondering what to barter for.  An exchange of kisses would be the easiest option, and, judging by the impatience in his eyes, what he expected her to suggest.  But then her gaze alit on the settee, and the hat discarded there, and a sly grin stole onto her lips.

His brow creased at her expression until he noticed where she was looking.  “Nuh-uh,” he said firmly, shaking his head.

She shrugged in response, as if his refusal made no difference to her.  “Then no kiss.”

“Hana!”  One foot shuffled back, and his arm around her slackened; but rather than let go entirely he slid it to the curve of her waist. 

Emboldened she shrugged again, and crossed her arms low over her stomach.  His thumb stroked the underside of her arm; she dug her fingers into her skin to fight off a shiver.  “That is the deal,” she said, “take it or leave it.”

He glared.  Hana watched the struggle play out on his face; his eyes darted to the offending article and then to her lips, lingering there before returning to the settee.  To help speed up the process she dropped her chin just a bit, let her lips part, and met his eyes through her eyelashes.  His fingers clenched at her waist as he groaned.

“Fine.”  He wagged a finger sternly in her face.  “But nobody hears about this, right?”

“Right.” 

When she turned back from the settee, boater in hand, his eyes were screwed shut.  They remained that way as she perched the hat atop his head; one cracked open briefly as he ordered, “No pins.” 

“Done,” she said, lowering her arms.  His expression was absolutely miserable, even if he had no idea what he looked like with the hat on.  The effect of the girlish, slightly-too-small hat on his dark hair was silly, to be sure, but likely no sillier than she looked.  Try as she might, she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. 

His eyes opened ever so slowly, as if any more pronounced action would dislodge the hat.  “I don’t know if I even wanna kiss you anymore,” he grumbled.

“If you don’t want to hold up your end of the deal…”  With a final shrug she turned away again, but before she could move far his hand was on her arm, spinning her back to him.  She thudded gently into his chest; then his arm was around her again, holding her close as he shook his head.

“A deal’s a deal,” he growled, and with his free hand he tipped the brim of the cap back before kissing her soundly.  Despite her pretended indifference, the warmth of his mouth on hers was deeply satisfying.  The boater slipped off as he bent to meet her and the cap joined it soon after, but neither of their owners noticed.


	27. Hana's Name Day (26 July 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Psst, Skitts, don't forget that tomorrow is Hana's name day!  I wouldn't want ya to get in trouble.**

 

A.

Skittery had never spent more than a day’s pay on flowers before.

To him they didn’t look much different than the ones growing outside in rich people’s gardens, but the woman in the flower shop had said they were  _hothouse flowers_ , that they couldn’t survive New York’s weather, and that was why they were so expensive.  He still couldn’t see how that justified shelling out that much cash—didn’t they know Manhattan in the summer was a hothouse?  They ought to grow anywhere—but [Hana had mentioned loving the smell of the gardenias at the Vande Kerks’](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/162805973615/hana-knew-she-was-fortunate-to-see-so-many-flowers#notes), and for once, she was going have some to take home with her.

Anyway, it was worth it to see her face light up when he handed her the bouquet.  “Oh, Roman!  They are beautiful!”

“So’re you.”  With the way she had her nose buried in the flowers, and the way her eyelashes fell across her cheek as she looked at them, and the way her eyes shone when she met his gaze, how could he say anything else? “[Všechno nejlepší k svátku](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2FAll%2520the%2520best%2520for%2520your%2520nameday.&t=M2JkZGMwZmQ2ODMxODNmYzRmZGNhNmEyZDE4YjM5Mjg2OWM4MjFhZCxkdExCMVZBWA%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163470314612%2Fpsst-skitts-dont-forget-that-tomorrow-is-hanas&m=1).”

“[Ďakujem](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2FThank%2520you&t=MGI1NGQ5YTk5ZDdkZDliYjIxY2JjOGIyYjg0OGM1OGVmNzJmZDdhZixkdExCMVZBWA%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163470314612%2Fpsst-skitts-dont-forget-that-tomorrow-is-hanas&m=1),” she said sincerely, taking his hand and squeezing it as she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Smiling under her kiss, he said, “And that ain’t all.”

Hana began to say “You shouldn’t have—,” dismayed by the amount he must have spent, no matter how much the flowers pleased her, but he shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“This one’s free.  [It don’t even cost you wearin’ my hat](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/163197257145/on-their-return-from-an-evening-stroll-roman).”  As his lips met hers, he could feel her smiling, and the scent of gardenias wreathed them as she wrapped her arm around his back while still holding the bouquet. “[Miluju tě](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2FI%2520love%2520you&t=OTgwMmNjMDQ2ZTEyYzc3YjM1OTZkMWRkMjRjN2Y3ODJlOTdlOTEzNyxkdExCMVZBWA%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163470314612%2Fpsst-skitts-dont-forget-that-tomorrow-is-hanas&m=1),” he murmured against her lips.

It took her a moment to be sure she’d even heard it, pulling back with eyes wide. “What?”  But she wasn’t displeased, and Roman just grinned, cradling her cheek as he pressed a light kiss to her forehead.  “I gotta get to work.”

“Roman!”

“I’m gonna be late,” he said, eyes dancing, and he gave her hand one last squeeze before turning around.

He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked away, unable to stop either the broad grin or the way his heart was racing, but when he reached the corner, he turned back, wanting to tell her to get the flowers inside—

But she was smelling them again, her dark hair shining as she bent over the white petals, and he didn’t want to disturb her.  Instead, he hurried to work, Tibby’s scolding for his near-tardiness long forgotten every time he caught a whiff of gardenia through the smells of bread and sausage and coffee that filled the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Všechno nejlepší k svátku = All the best on your name day 
> 
> Ďakujem = Thank you
> 
> Miluju tě = I love you


	28. Gardenias (27 July 1904)

_Miluju tě_.

Even with the words echoing in her head, she somehow found her way up the steps and into the building without raising her head from the bouquet.  Somehow she was still able to walk despite the daze his declaration had left her in.  

She was glad not to meet anyone on the way back to the apartment.  Her parents and Pauline would realize where the flowers had come from, though her friend would have to ask the occasion.  But were the flowers alone, gorgeous though they were, enough to warrant the euphoric expression that had surely overtaken her features?  There would be questions, and she would not be able to avoid admitting what he’d said.  She had no desire to see their reactions to something that had nothing to do with them.  This moment, this feeling: they belonged to no one but her and him.  

Halfway up she turned on the stair, ready to descend and follow him.  It was stupid to let him go away when he’d said that.  It wouldn’t matter if he were late to work; right now she felt like it wouldn’t matter if neither of them ever went to work again.  How could anything else matter when he’d just said that he loved her?

Poised with flowers in one hand and the other on the railing she sighed, replaying the moment in her mind.  Her eyes had been closed and she’d felt his lips forming words against hers; it had taken a moment for their meaning to reach her ears.  “ _Miluju tě_ ,” he’d said, and the world had gone quiet and soft for a heartbeat, leaving just the press of his hand, the curve of his mouth, the scent of the flowers.  Even now that scent was filling the stairwell and she smiled down at the blooms, unable to feel guilty for the expense while she was overwhelmed by his confession.

Then voices overhead prompted the return of some sensibility, and she started up the stairs again.  The gardenias had to be put in water if she wanted them to last, after all, and she couldn’t very well catch up with him now.  

She hadn’t been able to say it back before he’d left, had barely realized before he was on his way.  But she did, she did, and he would know as soon as she saw him again—if he wasn’t sure already.  But she would say the words and he would know her heart was his.

Her parents had never said those words to each other, not within her hearing.  Of course they loved one another; that was obvious, whatever they did or did not say.  Had Tatko ever bought flowers for Mama?  She doubted it.  But he had always cared for her, protected and provided for her.  Mama had always been safe and sheltered with Tatko, and he had always been stronger because of her help.  Now that she’d heard it, she couldn’t help feeling that her parents were missing something wonderful.

She found an empty jar large enough for the bouquet and filled it halfway with water.  As she carefully arranged the flowers in it she giggled, imagining how Mrs. Vande Kerk would react to see such a costly gift in a jar that had once held pickled beets.  She placed them by the bed and curled up there, every breath filled with their scent, a reminder that her name was Hana, and Roman loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: WHO WOULDA THUNK SKITTS WAS A SECRET ROMANTIC?!?!?!?!


	29. Meta: St. John Nepomucene

The other week I discovered the answer to a question that had been niggling at me: namely, where Hana and her parents would worship.

  * The Kollárs are members of the Roman Catholic church ( _rímskokatolícka cirkev_ ).
    * (I am not, so you may take anything I say about it with a grain of salt.)
    * It’s necessary to use the “Roman” to differentiate from [Greek Catholics](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSlovak_Greek_Catholic_Church&t=YTkyMWJkNGE4NmQ3MjBhOTFiZWJiOTdiZTY1OGU5YTA4OTRkNGJmYyxveVl6OWlnQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163888254865%2Fthe-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a&m=1)( _gréckokatolícka cirkev_ ), who are mainly concentrated in eastern Slovakia.
  * Why?  Because as of the 2011 census, 62% of Slovaks are Roman Catholic.
    * Whereas in the same year only 10.5% of Czechs identified as Catholic, with 34.5% claiming no religion (and almost 45% didn’t even answer the question, thanks guys).
      * However, in 1921 (the earliest [census data Wikipedia records](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FReligion_in_the_Czech_Republic%23Census_results&t=MzI5MTBkOGM5N2NlMmQyOGM5MTAxOWQyMDA3OGUxOTdjMzYyYzVhMyxveVl6OWlnQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163888254865%2Fthe-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a&m=1) on this issue) 82% of Czechs belonged to the Roman Catholic church. 
        * On the other other hand, in 1921 the two countries were united as Czechoslovakia, and it’s unclear whether the data above is from all of Czechoslovakia or only what is now the Czech Republic.  If the former, I would assume that Slovaks raised the percentage.
      * Either way, I would say that in general [Skittery’s ambivalence toward religion](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/117903654522/are-you-or-any-of-the-newsies-religious-i-figured) is in line with his heritage, as Hana’s belief is with hers.
  * Relevant vocab: 
    * church building =  _kostol_
    * church body (as in the Roman Catholic church as a whole) =  _cirkev_  
  * From 1895 until 1908, Slovak Catholics in New York met at the church of St. John Nepomucene on East 4th Street. 
    * I’d never heard of St. John Nepomuk before I went to the Czech Republic, where he is entombed in a [massive silver sarcophagus](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fgoo.gl%2Fimages%2F56cSnf&t=OGFmMWFmMTAyYTE2MjllYzRiZTQ5M2NiYjczZjcxZDg2NzVmMjIxNyxveVl6OWlnQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163888254865%2Fthe-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a&m=1) in Prague’s St. Vitus Cathedral. 
    * _Svätý Ján Nepomucký_  was killed in the 14th century, by order of Wenceslas IV of Bohemia (obviously not the Christmas carol king), whose political ambitions or spousal jealousy, depending on the source, he refused to indulge.
    * He’s now recognized as one of the patron saints of Bohemia.
      * But not Slovakia, and nothing in the scant online information about the parish addressed the choice of name. 
  * The parish was formed by Slovaks who had previously been members of the parish of St. Elizabeth of Hungary.
    * The building on 4th was formerly a synagogue.
    * In 1908 the congregation moved up to East 57th Street, into another former synagogue; the parish finally built its own sanctuary on 1st and 66th in the ’20s.
    * Pictures of all three buildings can be seen [here](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nycago.org%2FOrgans%2FNYC%2Fhtml%2FStJohnNepomucene.html&t=YmQ3YTM5NjRiYWJmZDNjMWVmNjkwZjczNmJkNzgzMjAyYzQ0MWFlOSxveVl6OWlnQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163888254865%2Fthe-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a&m=1).
    * The parish still exists today, though it no longer mainly serves Slovaks. 
    * These days it’s combined with the parish of St. Frances X. Cabrini into the “[East River Catholics](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Feastrivercatholics.org&t=YzMwNjExMWI5MzFmYzI0NWJhNjYwZjFjMjgzZjBhM2ZlMDVhMzYzNixveVl6OWlnQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163888254865%2Fthe-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a&m=1).” 




	30. Duane Street (8 August 1904)

They had paused at a corner to let a trolley go by when a passing pigeon scored a direct hit down the front of Tumbler’s shirt.  As his brother snickered he looked down at the chalky streak and cursed.  At least she assumed it was a curse, based on his exasperated tone; she couldn’t actually understand the words.  Roman gave him a glancing shove.

”Where’d you learn that one?”

“Race,” he grumbled, then raised an impish grin to the older boy.  “Like it?  It’s Italian.  Means ‘Your—’”

“Means you’re gonna get soaked if ya keep swearing in front of ladies, Italian or not.  Got it?” he warned sternly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Roman cast her a sideways glance and then leaned down to whisper in his brother’s ear.  She pretended not to hear him say, “But you can tell me later.”

Tumbler winked, but it soon changed to a grimace.  “I’m goin’ to change.”

“If you rinse it out soon, it should not stain,” Hana put in.  She thought of offering to wash it back at the apartment, but then they’d be stuck inside until it dried; she wasn’t keen on that idea, and reckoned they wouldn’t be, either. 

“It’s laundry day tomorrow anyway,” Roman said.  Then he looked down at her and asked, “What do you say?  Want to come see Duane Street?”

She’d long been curious about where they lived.  It was not likely that she would ever see Roman’s room; he’d pointed out the building before, but the threshold of the boarding house presented a nearly impassable barrier.  They both knew she could not enter it, not if she wanted to maintain her reputation as a respectable young lady, so neither ever broached the subject.  In contrast, the lodging house seemed much more welcoming.  If Tumbler and Kid Blink lived there, it must be a cheerful place.  So she nodded her acceptance of the invitation, and they set off again.

They weren’t the only people enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll.  As they made their way west and then south, she wondered if there was ever a time when New York’s streets were not full of people.  A good blizzard always kept people home; even a light snowfall would be welcome now, to temper the summer heat. 

By herself she likely would have missed the entrance to the lodging house, unassuming as it was, though closer inspection noted the sign over the door.  ”So this is it,” Roman said, “good old number nine Duane.  Not too bad for six cents a night.”

Compared to the street, the lobby was quiet and dim.  Though the room they stood in was empty, footsteps and voices sounded somewhere overhead.  The room’s main feature was a reception desk, lit by a large frosted-glass lamp, a ledger and pens standing at the ready.  Stairs nearby must have led to the bedrooms.

As she studied her surroundings, a man whose wrinkles seemed at odds with his purposeful tread entered.  He paused and squinted from behind spectacles before barking, “Skittery!  You lost or somethin’?”

“Tell ya what, I don’t miss wakin’ up to that voice every mornin’,” he said in a low voice, though not, it seemed, too quietly for the man to hear.  “Hiya, Kloppman.  How are ya?”  He shook the man’s hand with a grin. 

“Not bad, not bad.”  He nodded at Tumbler; then his eyes lit on her.  “An’ who’s this?”

“This is Hana.”  Roman’s grin widened.  “Hana, this is the guy in charge of all of us, Kloppman.”

“Peter Kloppman.  Pleased to meet ya, dear,” he said, extending a hand that she readily accepted.

She recognized the name, of course.  “It is nice to meet you, too.”

“Can Hana see my bunk?” Tumbler demanded, eagerly enough for her to believe that he didn’t just want to pawn his washing off on her.

Kloppman shook his head.  “You know the rules.  No ladies upstairs that don’t work here.”

“But can’t she just—”

“No ladies upstairs,” he replied firmly.

Tumbler scowled as he turned away.  “’S not me ya have to worry about doin’ anythin’ with her anyway,” he muttered, trudging toward the stairs.  Mr. Kloppman raised an eyebrow in their direction and she looked away, feeling her cheeks warm.

“You’re not missin’ much,” Roman told her; “it’s just a big room lined with bunkbeds that smells like a couple o’ dozen guys sleep there.”  She looked up at the ceiling and tried to picture it.  It sounded…well, not pleasant, but comfortable, homely.  Certainly not lonely.

When her attention returned to the lobby she found herself under Mr. Kloppman’s scrutiny.  “So this is Tumbler’s Hana.”

“Tumbler’s?”  A strange expression took over Roman’s face: one corner of his mouth tilted wryly, but his eyes crinkled with a warm smile.  “That’s funny, I thought she was my girl.” 

“He’s the one I hear ’bout her from,” he said pointedly, looking at Roman over the tops of his spectacles.

“Hey, I been busy!”

“I guess you have,” he sniffed. 

He shook a finger at the older man.  “You should be proud o’ me.  I got a good job where nobody’s complained about me in weeks.”

“Never said I ain’t.” 

“ _And_  I got the best girl in the city.”  He sagged back against the counter, shooting her a glance whose affection made up for its brevity.  “How’d I get so lucky, huh?” 

“She must be a saint, to put up with you.”  Mr. Kloppman turned to her with sparkling eyes.  “My dear, have you heard about the time when Skittery lost his union suit in a poker game?”

That got him upright with remarkable speed.  “Nope, an’ she ain’t gonna.  C’mon, Hana, let me show you around.”  The superintendent winked as Roman turned her away. 

“What is a union suit?” she asked innocently.  She thought she heard a muffled chuckle behind her.

“What’s a…”  He frowned down at her poorly concealed amusement.  “Nah, you ain’t foolin’ me with that ‘I don’t know English’ act.”  

“ _Nie?_ ” 

“ _Ne_.  See, you think since you look all sweet an’ pretty, nobody suspects you of anythin’.  But I know you.  You can’t just make those big eyes at me an’ get away with whatever ya want.”  He shook his head emphatically.

“Are you sure?”  She fluttered her eyelashes at him; in answer he set his mouth, crossed his arms, and flopped ungracefully onto the landing at the bottom of the stairs.

She bit back a laugh, then let her gaze wander upward, to the framed needlework on the wall.  “‘Speak the truth,’” she read aloud.  He sniggered quietly but did not comment, and she decided she would rather not pursue the topic at that moment; so she went on with her observation. 

Her slow turning brought her around to face the desk again, where she noticed [a framed drawing on the wall](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/108875825832/you-remember-when-i-found-out-we-had-50-folks).  [It depicted four boys huddled together](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/106282706517/foxingten-christmas-eve-newsies-based-on-this), their expressions sleepy and content.  The largest of them looked an awful lot like Jack.  Noticing her interest Kloppman moved behind the counter and took down the framed picture, handing it to her.  “A local artist drew that a few Christmases ago,” he explained.  “It’s a fair likeness, I think.  Much quieter than they are in person, though.” 

“Look at Tumbs,” Roman said, having heaved himself up to stand by her side.  “He’s so much bigger now.”  There was some melancholy awe in his voice.

“Kids do that.  Lucky for you I don’t have any pictures of you at that age.  What a sight that was.”  Roman groaned as Kloppman went on, “All knees an’ elbows, glarin’ at everybody, and his voice crackin’ all the time, which only made him angrier…”

“Aw, come on, Kloppman, you don’t gotta tell her all that!” 

“I do have one picture of him, though,” he told her, and turned into a back room; when he reemerged he held an oversized book.  He flipped open the cover to reveal a newspaper article pasted onto the page.  Right in the center was a photograph of a group of newsboys; she recognized Jack, smiling triumphantly, and David with a pained grimace, and Les and Blink, and in the back on the right, his mouth hanging open, Roman.  She burst out laughing. 

“The only picture of me there is and I look like a moron,” he grumbled, glaring at the page.

“It is not a good photograph,” she agreed, bending to peer more closely at the faces in it.  “You are much more handsome in person.”

“Good answer.”  She thought that if Mr. Kloppman weren’t there, he would have kissed her then.  As it was, he knocked his shoulder against hers.

“Feel free to look through that,” Mr. Kloppman said.  “And make yourself comfortable, please.”

Roman turned to her with bright eyes.  “Mind if I go upstairs for a bit?  To see what’s takin’ Tumbler so long, ya know.”

“An’ to see if any of his pals are lurkin’ around the place,” Mr. Kloppman added.  Roman shot him a dirty look, but didn’t refute the claim.  She told him it was fine with her and he did kiss her, pressing his lips to her temple before taking the stairs two at a time.  When she glanced at Mr. Kloppman to gauge his reaction his head was bent as he riffled through a sheaf of papers, but she thought there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

She took a seat on the bench opposite the desk, opening the scrapbook across her knees and smiling again at the first photograph before turning the page.  Mr. Kloppman had done a thorough job in collecting clippings; they weren’t only from the  _World_  but the  _Sun_ , the  _Tribune_ , even the  _Times_.  The headlines began with “Newsboys Go On Strike” and carried on from there: “Newsboys Act and Talk: Fight and Champion Their Cause in Mass Meeting,” “Newsboys See Victory Ahead,” “Striking Newsboys Stand Firm,” “‘World’ Jails Newsboys.”  Though there were no more photographs, a few of the stories included little sketches of newsboys.

“Were you here durin’ the strike?” a voice asked, and Hana glanced up.  Standing a few feet away was a tall young man with curly hair.  There was a faint dusting of something that might have been flour on one leg of his trousers.  He smiled; whereas Jack’s grin was brilliant, this one was utterly disarming.

“Yes,” she told the young man, “but I did not know English so good then.”

He took a few steps forward then and she noticed the crutch under his arm.  “I missed a lot of it myself.  Got thrown in the Refuge almost first thing,” he admitted with a roll of his eyes.  “I’m Crutchy, and you’re Hana, right?”

“Right.”

“Tumbler said you were here visitin’, so I thought I’d come down an’ say hello.”

“Do you live here still?”

If possible he stood even taller.  “An’ work.  I’m Mrs. Hall’s assistant.  She’s the cook.  Mind if I sit down?”

She shook her head and dusted off the bench next to her.  Grinning, Crutchy sat and leaned his crutch against the seat.  Then he peeked over at the scrapbook.  “Hard to believe all that was five years ago,” he said.

“Can you tell me what happened?  I know it was important—Roman and Tumbler talk about it sometimes, but I don’t remember what happened.”  And, truth be told, she was embarrassed about it.  It felt too late to admit her ignorance to anyone else, especially Roman.

“Sure!  See, folks buy papes from us for a penny apiece.  But we gotta buy ’em from the distribution center first, for two for a penny.  So a newsie pays fifty cents for a hundred papes an’ gets a dollar if he sells ’em all.”  And then, obviously, they would have money to buy the next day’s papers, as well as a little for necessities like food and rent.  “If he don’t sell ’em all, then he was stuck with the loss.  An’ o’ course, most of us ain’t sellin’ a hundred a day…except maybe for Jack Kelly on a good day.”  He paused, smirking, before carrying on.

“But then one day Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, owner of the New York  _World_ , decided to raise the price us newsies paid for our papes.  All of a sudden a hundred cost sixty cents.  Maybe it don’t sound like a lot, but those extra pennies made the difference between eatin’ and goin’ hungry for a lot of fellas, and between havin’ a bed here or sleepin’ on the street for some of ’em.”  The thought of Roman or, worse still, Tumbler hungry and homeless chilled her to the bone.  “None o’ us thought it was fair, them raisin’ the price, but we didn’t know what we could do about it.  Then Dave—you met Dave yet?  Good guy—said we could go on strike.  He was just jokin’, but once Jack heard it he thought it was a good idea, so we stopped sellin’ that very day. 

“At first it was just us Lower East fellas, so we had to get other newsies to join.  We tried to, ah, persuade—”  Here he waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a smile from his audience.  “—some of the other fellas to strike, too, but ended up destroyin’ the mornin’ edition instead.  You shoulda seen it.  Some of the fellas pushed a wagon over, and guys were throwin’ tomatoes at Weasel an’ the Delanceys, and there was paper flyin’ through the air like snow in winter.  I don’t think there’s a newsie alive who hasn’t wanted to rip up all o’ his papes at some point, so we was havin’ fun.”  The picture he painted and his obvious joy made it impossible not to join him in grinning.  After a moment, though, the mirth drained from his expression, leaving resignation in its wake. 

“But Weasel got a call in to the cops an’ they came to break it up,” he sighed, sounding more annoyed at the interruption than anything else.  “Most everybody got away in time.”

“Except you.”

He nodded, his curls wobbling.  “Jack an’ Dave came to bust me out o’ the Refuge that night, but I had to stay.  One less thing for the boys to worry ’bout, ya know?  ’Sides, it saved me havin’ to pay room an’ board here for a while.”  It wasn’t as bright as his previous grin, but his smile was determined, and admiration welled up inside her.

With the aid of the scrapbook Crutchy told her about the parts of the strike he’d been absent for: Brooklyn coming to Manhattan’s aid, the rally and its aftermath, Jack’s decision to change sides.  Just seventeen years old, she thought, and could not imagine how the boys must have felt—how upset Roman would have been—how devastated Jack must have been, with his friends threatened and his pride in tatters.  It was hard to imagine the Jack she’d met—the Jack who kissed Sarah’s hand, the Jack who still called David his best friend though they lived far apart, the Jack who took the time to console an unhappy Tumbler—abandoning his friends, walking away from the fight he’d begun.  At the same time she understood that to protect his friends, his family, Jack would do anything in his power.

“But like Jack always says, ya can’t let ’em beat ya.  So the fellas had to remember that, even if Jack wasn’t rememberin’ it hisself.”  Then he recounted the run-in with the Delanceys, printing and distributing the leaflet with Mr. Denton’s article (preserved near the back of the scrapbook), and the second rally that finally led to Jack and David negotiating with Pulitzer.  “By the time we got there, it was a madhouse.  There were kids everywhere, messengers an’ factory kids an’ bootblacks—every job a kid could do they were out there, stickin’ up for the newsies.”  And his release from the Refuge had been effected by Theodore Roosevelt himself, who then offered to take Jack anywhere he wanted.  The high of the compromise had been doused by Jack’s sudden departure, though fortunately their sadness was just as swiftly wiped out by his return. 

“An’ that was what we did in the summer o’ 1899,” Crutchy concluded, closing the scrapbook.  “It’s a pretty good story, right?  You’ve got your romance, your intrigue, your fight scenes…  Maybe one day somebody’ll write it all down.”

But it wasn’t just a story; it had happened to people she knew—to her friends.  The realization shook her.  It must have shown on her face, because Crutchy glanced over at her and then stood.

“Listen, I’ll be right back, a’right?”  When Hana nodded he headed for the stairs.  Once he’d gone she too rose and returned the scrapbook to Mr. Kloppman’s desk; he’d left sometime, she thought around Crutchy’s second-hand description of the Irving Hall rally.

Roman clattered down a moment later, all smiles.  After hearing what they’d gone through she found herself fiercely proud of him, though the pride did not displace the pity she felt over the hardships they’d suffered.  And while it wouldn’t have been polite to hug a near-stranger like Crutchy, no matter how friendly he was, there was nothing to stop her from holding her fellow.  With quick steps she met him, enclosed him in her arms and drew his head down to rest against hers.  She shut her eyes and held him tight, for his sake, and Tumbler’s, and Crutchy’s.

He was solid and warm, heartbeat steady against her chest as he returned the embrace; still she asked, “Are you all right?”

“Swell,” he murmured, close to her ear.  “Are you?”

As she nodded she loosened her hold and pulled away to see concern clouding his features.  She reached up to smooth his hair back, running her fingers through it gently.  He sighed in contentment, and his eyes slipped shut, and her heart felt like it might burst.

“ _Milujem ťa_ ,” she said softly.

His whole countenance was illuminated.  “You too.”  He kissed her sweetly, but all too briefly for her liking.

To distract herself she asked, “Where is Tumbler?”

“He’s finishin’ a game of marbles with Ten-Pin.  He’ll be down in a minute.”

“He goes to clean his shirt and starts playing marbles?”  She shook her head.  “I do not understand boys.”

Roman’s eyes met hers; they sparked with happiness and that hot, intimate thing that she shied from naming.  “Seems like you understand me pretty good.”

“That is because you are not a boy.”  Her hands slid to the back of his neck, and she rose on her tiptoes.  “You are a man.”  This time he kissed her breathless, holding her near as she melted against him.

A pointed cough brought them back to earth and she peeked over his shoulder to see Crutchy wearing a smirk, a small white bundle in his hand.  “Hey, Skittery,” he said, moving forward as Roman released her to turn.  “I’d ask how you’re doin’, but my eyes are workin’ fine.”

Though he looked a little embarrassed at being caught, he settled his arm around her waist as he replied.  “Hey, Crutchy, how’re you?”

“Great!  Workin’ here’s good, an’ Myra’s still happy with me, so I got nothin’ to complain about.  An’ I got to meet Hana today.  I’d say that makes it a pretty good day.”  She returned his sincere smile.

“If ya don’t mind my sayin’ so, ya looked like you could use some cheerin’ up before.  Seems like Skitts got to it before me.”  The mischievous light sparkled in his eyes again; it put her in mind of Pauline’s playful teasing.  “All the same, I don’t think Mrs. Hall’d mind me sharin’ these with you.”  When he put the little bundle into her hands she could smell spices and sugar.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up from the gift to meet his eyes.  “For this, and for the story.”  He simply nodded in understanding.

Roman, meanwhile, leaned over to sniff at the bundle.  “Snickerdoodles?  Thanks, Crutch.”

“They’re for her, not you,” he scolded.  “It’s up to her if she wants to share.”

“Sure she will,” Roman said confidently.

She brought the napkin-wrapped bundle closer to her nose.  “I don’t know,” she said slowly, “they smell delicious.  I might want them all myself.”

He drew back, affronted.  “You’re not gonna share with me?”

“I have not decided yet.”

“Share what?” Tumbler wondered, ricocheting down the stairs in a cleaner shirt.

“Nothin’ for you to worry ’bout, squirt.”

From there it was a jumble of activity as Tumbler launched himself into Roman and attempted to wrestle him to the floor, Mr. Kloppman reappeared to holler at them to “knock it off an’ get outta my buildin’” before wishing her goodbye, and Crutchy told her not to be a stranger and to enjoy the cookies.  When he realized that she had cookies Tumbler turned his attention to her, and Hana rushed out onto the sidewalk, the boys at her heels.

As they tried to wheedle cookies from her Hana resolved to talk to Roman more about his past: the good and the bad alike, all that had made him the man he was.  She might understand him, but there was still a lot she ought to know about him.  Eventually, heart lighter, she broke down and doled out a cookie apiece, Tumbler giving her loud thanks and Roman’s lips sugary against her cheek.  The past would keep for now; it could wait until some other sunny day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milujem ťa = I love you
> 
> JACK: FEATURIN’ CRUTCHY, KLOPPMAN, LIFE AT DUANE STREET, AN’ HANA AN’ SKITTS BEIN’ SO LOVEY-DOVEY YOU COULD TOSS ‘EM IN THE RIVER (Sarah says they’re adorable.) (also @foxingten guess whose picture’s still hangin’ up in the lodgin'house?!)


	31. Skittery's (Second) Name Day (9 August 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**_Všetko najlepšie k meninám ešte raz!  Prajem Ti veľa šťastia, zdravia a lásky._ Would you like to go to Mrs. Procházka’s with me?  I can’t give you anything so nice as what you gave me for my name day, but I can buy cakes for you (and Tumbler, if he wants to come).  _Milujem Ťa._**

 

A.

Děkuji, miláčku. You don’t have to get me nothin’–I got you, and that’s worth more than anythin’ money can buy.

But Tumbs saw your note and said he’s goin’ “even if you guys smooch the whole way there!,” so it looks like you’re stuck with him–which means I better go along, too, so he don’t eat up your entire life’s savings. Besides, I ain’t in the habit of turnin’ down a date with my favorite girl.

Can we pick ya up about seven?

Miluju tě.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Všetko najlepšie k meninám ešte raz! Prajem Ti veľa šťastia, zdravia a lásky. = All the best on your name day, again! I wish you great happiness, health, and love
> 
> Milujem Ťa/Miluju tě = I love you
> 
> Děkuji, miláčku = Thank you, sweetheart


	32. Mistaken Identity  (10 August 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**I don't mean to pry, but who's the mystery gal with the funny language givin' you cake?  Sarah's been hanging around my corner, and I got a queer feeling that says we mighta' accidentally switched girls.**

 

A.

SKITTERY: HEY! Just ‘cause this’s Jack’s paperless pape thing don’t mean every question’s for him, ya know. Even if it’s called “Jack Kelly, Cowboy Hero” instead o’ “Skittery, Half-Decent Waiter.” And even if The Editor forgets to label who’s involved in the tags.

So this “mystery girl” is my girl, Hana, and the “funny language” is Slovak, and if Jack wants any cake, he better get his own girl to take him, ‘cause it ain’t Hana’s responsibility to hand out cake to everybody, ya know. 'Specially if it ain’t his name day, and there ain’t a name day for “Cowboy.” So that’s more proof it wasn’t him answerin’. He woulda come away cakeless an’ disappointed.

'Specially after I soaked him for tellin’ my girl he loved her in Czech.


	33. Monograms (14 August 1904)

A light tinkle from the bell above the door heralded Hana’s entrance into the shop where Pauline worked.  It smelled of linen and lavender, with just a hint of the floor polish she preferred.  She’d been in C.M. James & Co. a time or two before, though she couldn’t afford to buy any of the dresses they sold.  That didn’t stop her from looking as she made her way forward, admiring the cut of a suit, the nearly translucent weave of a blouse.  Autumn was on its way, and the shop was ready to outfit its customers for the cooler months, in tweeds and woolens, russets and bronzes and marigolds.  

While she may not have been able to purchase a dress there, the shop also sold accessories.  Those she could afford, and such an errand gave her a reason to visit her friend.

A man her father’s age in an immaculate suit greeted her cordially before calling, “Letty, will you help this young lady, please?”

“I’ll do it, Mr. James,” Pauline volunteered smoothly.  She glided around her dark-haired and supercilious coworker to greet Hana.  “Good afternoon, miss, how may I help you?”

She tried to keep her smile from being too wide and familiar.  She doubted Pauline would get in trouble, but saw no need to risk it.  “I need a new handkerchief, please.”

“Right this way.”

Pauline swept toward a glass-topped counter to one side of the shop.  Displayed inside were brooches and pins sparkling with crystals and paste jewels.  Pauline brought out several trays in which lay pristine, sharply-creased samples.  The handkerchiefs ran the gamut from simple cotton squares to lace-trimmed confections that would barely withstand a light breeze, let alone actual sneezes.  Sometimes it seemed that for all of their advantages, the rich made rather silly choices.  Silly, but pretty.  Pauline displayed them one by one as if to a real high-class customer.  It gave them time to chat quietly, and Hana took her time inspecting each design.  At length she chose one of the more practical designs, though with a gently scalloped edge. 

“Lovely choice,” Pauline said in her formal shop-assistant’s tone, though her smile was genuine.  “Would you like to have them monogrammed, miss?”  Upon seeing Hana’s wrinkled brow she lowered her voice to explain, “Embroidered with your initials.  H, K, and what’s your middle name?”  She reached under the counter and produced a small book, opening it to display illustrations of intertwined initials, dizzying swirls of letters.  

“I don’t have one.”  No one in her family did, for that matter.  “What is your middle name?”

“Pauline, actually,” she replied, wearing a look of distaste.  “I was named after my mother.”  Hana couldn’t remember what Mrs. Hermann’s given name was, but she thought Pauline’s grimace and the little shake she gave herself were more in response to the name itself than to her namesake.  

“Then just H and K for you.  The ladies can do little vines and flowers, too; they’re extra, though.”  She flipped to a page of illustrated decorative designs, and Hana peered down at them, knowing full well that she would leave the store with an unadorned handkerchief.

As she looked at the pattern book Pauline asked, “What’s Roman’s last name again?”

“Kučera.”

“Is that spelled with a C or a K?”

“K,” she answered, as slowly as it was possible to pronounce a single letter, and she straightened.  

The feeling that she knew what Pauline was thinking only intensified when she said, “Ah,” that one syllable somehow speaking volumes.

“Yes?”

“Well.”  Pauline glanced at her from across the counter.  Her face resumed the bland, patient, nearly bovine look she wore for customers.  “You wouldn’t have to change your initials.”

If they married, she meant.  Since it was true, Hana supposed she couldn’t be truly angry at her friend.  A little disappointed, certainly, and the tiniest bit annoyed, but not angry.  She was as meddlesome as Tumbler sometimes, and with less of an excuse.  “Ach, Pauline!”

“Yes?”  She blinked, then leveled her wide-eyed gaze at Hana, looking the picture of wounded innocence.  The girl could go on the stage; people would pay simply to see her talk and to watch the animated expressions play across her face.

Hana scowled briefly, but then sighed.  Pauline meant well, she knew.  Then a thought occurred to her, a way to show the other girl how it felt.  “You would, though.”  It was Pauline’s turn to frown, her head cocked to one side, until Hana elaborated, “If you married Kid Blink.”

“Oh!”  She drew back and for a second Hana feared she’d actually offended her; then she chuckled.  “I suppose I deserved that,” she said, shaking her head.  “And I won’t mention it again if you’d rather I didn’t.  I wouldn’t say anything at all if you two weren’t so sweet together.  I rather envy you,” she admitted, and her face was indeed wistful.

It would be a different expression altogether if she knew that there was more than simply sweet companionship between them.  For a second Hana thought of admitting what he’d said, that his feelings were reciprocated.  But as much joy as it would bring Pauline to know—and as much as part of Hana wanted to boast—it was still too new and dear.  Now, in the middle of a shop, was not the time to reveal the depth of their feelings.  Nor did she want to encourage any more marriage talk from her friend.

At least, not talk of Hana’s hypothetical marriage.  “If you are worried about meeting young men, why work in a dress shop?”

“I couldn’t give up this job for something like that.  I’m not Letty,” she said softly, tipping her head toward the other girl.  “Some young ladies get positions in stores so they can meet rich husbands, but I like working here.  Mr. James is a dear, and most of the other girls are, too, and I’ve gotten to know some of our customers well.  It would be dreadfully heartless and… _mercenary_  to give all that up just to try to hunt down a man.”

If she’d been disappointed in Pauline before, Hana wasn’t now.  She had no fear for Pauline’s future; all the same, it wouldn’t hurt to offer some help.

“Roman must know plenty of young men.  Besides Blink,” she added quickly.  Of his friends she knew the aforementioned Mr. Ballatt, and Jack, who was married; Les, who was too young; and Crutchy, who had spoken of a Myra.  And there was David, who was clever and kind.  “I will ask.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, but her eyes were suddenly bright with excitement.  “I’m sure I don’t want to trouble him.”

“It will be no trouble.”

Pauline gave her a brilliant smile before her businesslike demeanor returned.  “Would you like this monogrammed after all?”  Hana considered for a moment, tapping a forefinger against her chin; but then Pauline added, “It would be an investment for the future.”  So with all of the haughtiness and disdain she could muster she shook her head.  The effect was diminished by the fact that she then had to wait for Pauline to make out a receipt, her narrow shoulders nearly shaking with barely-concealed laughter all the while.  Finally, a single, unmonogrammed handkerchief in hand, Hana was able to march toward the door.

“Thank you!” Pauline trilled behind her.  “Do come again!” 

* * *

“Do you have any unattached friends?” 

Roman smiled.  “Thinkin’ of replacin’ me already?”  It was two days later, the first time she’d seen him since visiting James & Co.; he had stopped by after dinner and they were ensconced on the settee, chatting about their days.  Mama was finishing up in the kitchen, while Tatko sat at the table, writing to Jozef.

“Not yet.  For Pauline.  She needs her own romance to think about.”  

“I’d think a girl like her could have her pick of the city.” 

“Yes.  But she is very…”  The word, one she ought to know, was just out of reach.  And she couldn’t seem to think of an appropriate term in Slovak, either.  She took a breath and tried to explain.  “She likes things just so, yes?  She wants them to be neat and beautiful and good.” 

“She’s a snob?” he suggested dryly. 

“No!  She is…”  English was harder in the evenings, when mind and body were tired, when home brought to mind not the apartment but the house she’d grown up in.  It had been a long day; her mind felt sluggish and clouded.  She pressed the heel of one hand to her forehead, trying to hurry the right word along, worried that he was having to wait for her and growing frustrated with herself.  When all attempts proved fruitless she cried, “ _Neviem ako sa to povie po anglicky!_ ”

“Hey, hey.  It’s alright,” he soothed.  Gently but firmly he took her hand away from her head and tucked it in both of his.  “It’s just me.  You can say anythin’ to me, in whatever language ya want, an’ I’ll understand ya.”  He raised all three of their hands; now cupping hers in the two of his he dropped a kiss on the back, then turned it over to do the same to her palm.  That done he laced their fingers together and returned their clasped hands to the sliver of cushion between them.  She could feel the kiss there, pressed between their palms, almost believed that it fluttered with a pulse of its own.  Her heart throbbed and she released a sigh that only slightly caught in her throat. 

After a moment he went on as if nothing had happened.  “Well, if she’s looking for a neat, beautiful, good type of fella, I don’t know if a bunch of newsies is the right place to start.  We know how her meetin’ Kid went.”  He gave her a droll look, inviting a giggle, before he continued.  “Let’s see.  Crutchy and Jake and Mush’ve all had girls for years.  Y’oughta meet Mush sometime; he’s a real nice guy, even if he is Blink’s best pal.”  

As he spoke his thumb traced gently across the back of her hand.  She felt her worries subside and leaned toward him, into him as much as she dared, pressing their upper arms together.

“Racetrack is loud and short and crude—you heard Tumbs sayin’ he learned that Italian cursin’ from him.  I don’t mind the kid learnin’ the language; I just wish Race’d teach him something polite.  Anyway, Race’s funny and quick with numbers, but his luck ain’t the best.  Can’t say I think Pauline would go for him.” 

He likewise dismissed boys called Snitch (“he don’t believe in havin’ a good time”), Pie Eater (“she like cookin’? ’cause he likes eatin’”), Itey (“I don’t know if Snitch’d let him”), and Swifty (“unless she enjoys runnin’ from the cops”).  It was beginning to look like she’d already met the best the Duane Street Lodging House had to offer—though if that were true, she personally had no reason to complain.

But there was hope yet.  “If she likes dancin’, Bumlets is her man.  He’s got the lightest feet I ever seen, an’ he knows all the steps to the popular dances, an’ prob’ly the unpopular ones, too.  He don’t say much, though.” 

That would never do, so Hana shook her head.  “She must have someone she can talk to.”  No matter how much she liked dancing, Pauline would not suffer a companion she couldn’t hold a conversation with. 

“Somebody to talk to.  Well, there’s Specs or Dutchy.  Dutch could talk to her in a couple o’ different languages, even.  The two of them, though, they can be a little…”  He wiggled his free hand in a rather vague fashion.  “Let’s say eccentric.”  That she understood to be a polite way of calling someone strange.

“Who’s missin’?” he mused to himself.  “Tumbler an’ his pals are all too young…”  Under his breath he muttered names, eyes closed as if picturing something, extending fingers as he counted.  “Snoddy, that’s it!  Now that’s an idea,” he added slowly.

“Snoddy?”  She wrinkled her nose.  At least “Snitch” and “Swifty” made some kind of sense; she was fairly confident that “Snoddy” had no meaning in English or any other language.  “I think this name you have made up, to trick me.”

He chuckled.  “Nah, it’s real, I promise ya.”  

“Because I don’t think Pauline will like someone she has to call ‘Snoddy.’”

“Bet she’ll like him if she meets him, no matter what he’s called.  He’s tall and handsome…except when he’s got a busted nose,” he added, snickering.  

“You think he is handsome?”  She poked his leg with her little finger. 

He returned the gesture.  “That’s what the girls he hung around with said.  Includin’ Sarah.”

“Sarah Kelly?”

He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially.  “Word is they walked out together a time or two, back when she was still Sarah Jacobs.”

“I cannot imagine Sarah with anyone but Jack.”  Though perhaps she could, with a little effort; and it struck her that it would be harder to imagine Jack loving anyone but Sarah. 

Roman shrugged.  “They’ve only been married a couple o’ years.  But…”  His eyes met hers.  “They seem like they were made for each other.”  From the warmth of his gaze and the rumble of his voice it didn’t feel like he was just talking about the Kellys anymore.  Sitting close to him with the feel of his pulse against her wrist, watching a smile settle on his lips and in his eyes was almost as good as kissing him.

Though loath to interrupt the moment, she was still curious.  “What else is Snoddy like?”

His face screwed up in thought for a moment before he answered.  “Out of all o’ us, he was always the one who looked the least like a street kid.  Kept his clothes nice and clean, carried a comb around with him in case his hair needed it.”  That sounded promising, as did Roman’s next words.  “He always had pretty good manners, too, an’ talked a lot about treatin’ girls—ladies,” he amended, nudging her side, “right.”

Though of course her friend could defend herself, Hana would not stand for anyone treating Pauline with anything but kindness and respect.  “If he is like you say, maybe she would like him.”

Just then Tatko yawned, rather loudly; he apologized as Mama scolded him lightly.  “I better go,” Roman said, laughter in his voice.  He stood, loosing her hand to push himself up, then, once he was on his feet, offering his hand to help her up.  Tatko and Mama wished him goodnight; then he led her to the door and opened it. 

It was safer, more respectable, and infinitely less satisfying to say goodnight there than in the stairwell.  “ _Mi_ —” he began, then looked past her to her parents, though they didn’t appear to be listening.  He squeezed her hand.  “You know.” 

“I know.”

“I’ll see if Snoddy’s interested,” he said, releasing her to back away.  Hana leaned out into the hallway to call after him. 

“But only if he has a real name.”

His chuckle tumbled down the hall to her.  It was followed by the rest of him, as a few quick strides brought him back to the door.  One hand slipped round the back of her neck; she caught a glimpse of his dark eyes above a devilish smirk before his mouth was on hers, warm and insistent.  When he pulled away she leaned toward him, unwilling to let him go so soon; only his hand moving to her shoulder kept her from losing her balance. 

“ _Dobrou noc, miláčku,_ ” he murmured.

“ _Sladké sny_.”

“Only if they’re about you.”  He grinned, and though she shook her head she couldn’t help but smile.  

It was perfectly understandable that Pauline was envious, she thought, going to the workbasket and picking out a light green thread.  Then she sat and stitched her initials into the new handkerchief, hoping that the combination of letters would serve her a good long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neviem ako sa to povie po anglicky = I don’t know how to say it in English
> 
> Dobrou noc, miláčku = Good night, darling/sweetheart/dear/whatever unbearably sweet and besotted thing you can imagine
> 
> Sladké sny = Sweet dreams
> 
> JACK: SOMEBODY REMIND ME TO MAKE SARAH TELL YA ABOUT THE TIME SHE BROKE SNODDY’S NOSE!
> 
> (in other news, I still think Pauline oughtta star in a dime novel.)


	34. George (18 August 1904)

The four of them had fallen into what she thought was a comfortable pattern: Roman would invite her somewhere and Hana would look to her parents for a nod of permission before accepting the invitation.  So standing at the door on Friday night, they both expected the usual silent response when he asked if he could pick her up for a walk on Sunday afternoon; that expectation made Mama’s firm “No” all the more jarring.

“We will have a guest for lunch after Mass,” she explained, apparently oblivious to Hana’s shock.  When Hana glanced his way, Tatko seemed unperturbed by this announcement.

“How ’bout after lunch, then?”  Roman’s tone was light and calm.  Sunday was the only day off they reliably had in common; she would much rather spend the time with him than some unknown guest. 

Despite the reasonable suggestion Mama shrugged philosophically.  “Who can know how long lunch will take?”  The message was clear: the answer remained no.  Roman’s head jerked in a short nod. 

Though his jaw was clenched when he turned to her, his eyes were clouded with worry.  “I’ll see ya some other time, then.”  She nodded; when he made no move, she pushed up on her toes to kiss his cheek.  Then, after a last searching look that she could not answer, he was gone. 

The moment the door was closed she rounded on her mother.  “Who is coming for lunch that is so special?” she demanded in Slovak.

Mama responded in the same language.  “The Boháčiks’ nephew Juraj.  He arrived a few weeks ago, remember?”  How could she forget?  It had been the talk of the parish, and his red hair was hard to miss when he knelt before the altar to receive the Eucharist.  Her anger subsided somewhat, cooled by a brief wash of pity.  He’d been passed around the congregation since soon after he disembarked, everyone eager to get a look at him and hear news from the old country.  Surely he was tired of his tour; surely he wouldn’t mind skipping the Kollárs.  But, she reflected, it mattered little what he might want.  Her mother would have him as a guest, and would pull out all the stops to make him feel welcome and well-fed.

“Couldn’t Roman come, too?”  It took an effort not to sound mulish, knowing that reticence would not sway her.

For the first time in the conversation Mama looked up, and her gaze was sharp.  “Roman is not part of this family.”

Feeling surlier than she had since she was a teenager, Hana flung open the door and announced that she was going to the bathroom.  No matter how much she would have liked to it was nearly impossible to stomp in her slippers, and besides, she was never able to be angry for long; so she shuffled down the hall.  Mama was not wrong, of course, but her dismissal of Roman came as a surprise.  She’d thought they liked him.  They always greeted him warmly, and Mama invited him to stay and eat, and Tatko shook his hand and asked him how he was with what she’d thought was real interest.  Had she been so wrong?  Would they forbid her from seeing him?  If they tried, would she defy them, or obey?  Was there any way to keep her heart from breaking?  

She returned to the apartment to see that she hadn’t closed the door all the way when she’d left—it was the worst she could manage, unable as she was to bring herself to slam it.  Her parents’ voices drifted out from the gap.  She paused to listen, though she dreaded what she might hear.

“He is a waiter!”

“He is a smart man, Vierka.  He won’t always be a waiter.  And he would do anything for Hanka.  You see how much in love they are.”

“Love?  How can it be love?  She hardly knows him.  It isn’t love he wants,” Mama warned darkly, “it’s—”

“Do you really believe that?”  Tatko sounded incredulous, and a pause followed his question.  For all she knew Mama was nodding her head off, though she could also have been shaking it reluctantly.  “He is a good boy.”

“How do we know?” Mama rallied, though her fervor had weakened.  “Where is his family?  Is he even Catholic?”

“I wonder if the Balogs asked the same questions about our Jozef.”  Tatko’s mild tone did not disguise the point to his words.  Before Mama could protest in favor of her son he pressed on.  “If Roman has no family, is that his fault?  If he has left them, could there not be a good reason for it?”

Mama did not answer.  The room inside seemed still; Hana seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.  A long moment later Tatko’s voice came low and grave.

“She will not stay with us forever, Viera.  Do not drive her away too soon.”

She slipped in quietly and went to her bed, heart heavy.

* * *

Clouds hung thick and threatening overhead as they made their way to the church on East 4th Street.  Though it was cooler inside and far less humid, Hana was still distracted from the liturgy.  She found herself watching Juraj, their soon-to-be-guest.  His hair seemed to glow like a candle’s flame in the dim interior.   _Help me to be kind to him_ , she prayed, her eyes on the crucifix over the altar.   _None of this is his fault._

All too soon the priest was pronouncing the blessing over them, and they made their way down the aisle to the gusty creak of the organ.  They waited by the door for the Boháčiks, who’d been sitting closer to the front of the church ever since Juraj had arrived.  When at last the two families met Mr. Boháčik was stiff with pride, and his wife’s thin face pink.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kollár, Miss Hana, may I introduce my nephew, Juraj Boháčik.  Juraj, Matej and Viera Kollár, and their daughter Hana.”

Where Mr. Boháčik had used the English titles, Juraj used the Slovak equivalents.  “ _Pan Kollár, Pani Kollárová_.”  He shook their hands before turning to Hana.  “ _Slečna Kollárová.  Teší ma_.”

“Hana, please,” she said in English.

“Of course.”  He inclined his head slightly, giving her a polite smile.  “And you may call me Juraj.”  He nodded to include her parents.  In his English she caught the hint of an unfamiliar accent.  Maybe it was there in his Slovak, too, but she couldn’t be sure.

It wasn’t just his accent; there was something foreign about the cut of his coat, too, something that looked neither Slovak nor American.  Though it fit well, its style seemed at odds with the rest of him, for he was short and stocky, with a coarseness about his features that reminded her of an old shepherd she’d known.  He looked like a laborer, but it wasn’t a laborer’s coat; and there was a certain grace in the way he moved. 

“I look forward to eating with you all this afternoon,” he said, and gave a little bow.  Then they parted ways, the beaming Boháčiks escorting Juraj off as the Kollárs hurried home to prepare for his arrival.

* * *

An hour later there was a smart rap at the door.  Tatko, who’d happened to be nearest, opened it to admit Juraj, still in that coat.  Mama hurried in to greet him, with Hana trailing behind.  Soon they were seated around the table, steam rising from the soup in the borrowed tureen, a loaf of fresh white bread wrapped in an embroidered cloth. 

“What did you do before coming here?” Tatko asked.

“I studied law at the University of Vienna.”  He lifted his spoon and blew delicately on the soup before eating it. 

“You speak German, too, then?”

He nodded.  That was why his accent was so unusual. Maybe it explained his coat as well.  “My English is not as good as I’d like, though…”

“That will come quickly to someone so clever.”  

“Will you practice law here?”

He didn’t look like a New York lawyer.  Mr. Roth wore a bowler hat and a mustache, though she supposed neither was compulsory for the profession.  If she were a good person she would offer to introduce Juraj to Mr. Roth; if she were a good friend she would find out what the fashionable ladies of Vienna were wearing so she could tell Pauline.  Hana sipped at her soup and said nothing. 

“I doubt my credentials will be accepted here.  I’ll most likely have to begin as a clerk and work my way up.”  He shrugged.  “But I would have had to do that in Vienna anyway.”

His manners were impeccable, if formal; he was respectable and educated.  His future would certainly be prosperous and secure.  It was a shame that he was so dull.  He answered questions as if reading from a script—not that she could blame him; he’d likely been giving the same responses to the same questions since he’d stepped off of the boat.  Even Mama’s rapt attention faded as the meal went on. 

Over cake and coffee he asked Hana how she spent her free time.  Caught off guard and missing her mother’s glare she answered, “With Roman.”  When she noticed his curious smile she added, “And Pauline and Andy.  My friends,” more for Mama’s sake than Juraj’s.  He seemed neither disappointed nor discouraged by her candor.

Eventually he took his leave, thanking them for their hospitality.  Her mood began to brighten as he shook their hands; then he paused with her hand still clasped in his.  Up close his eyes were livelier, and his hand was warm. 

“Hana,” he said, “are you free to take a walk sometime this week?  I’d like the chance to talk with you more—if that would be agreeable with you, of course.”

She felt Mama’s eyes boring into her back.  “That would be nice,” she murmured weakly. 

“Excellent.  Tuesday afternoon?”  She nodded, though her head felt leaden.  “Then I will pick you up here.”

The door closed and she slumped against it, feeling bile rise in her throat.  She turned with her eyes closed in the hopes that she wouldn’t see a triumphant smile on Mama’s face; and so she missed the sadness there instead. 

* * *

Hana had just changed out of her work dress when Juraj knocked.  She’d made no special effort to dress up, but then nor had Juraj, who today was wearing a coat that looked like he’d borrowed it from someone else, a man with narrower shoulders.  He seemed different; the liveliness she’d seen in his eyes on Sunday evening looked to have spread. 

“Where would you like to go?” she asked when they reached the street.

“I know just the place,” he said in English, and set off as if he’d lived in the city his entire life.  Hana hurried to catch up with him, then wished she hadn’t as he headed down familiar streets.  As if things couldn’t get any worse, he stopped in front of Tibby’s.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go someplace else?” she asked.  Where could they go?  Not Mrs. Procházka’s; her blood ran cold at the thought of going there with anyone else.  “This is just…cheap food.”

“Excellent!”  He pushed open the door and held it for her.  “That is what I want.”  He stared at her impatiently until she forced herself through the door.  Tibby’s was far from full in the awkward lull between the lunch and dinner hours; she hoped harder than anything that there would be no one there who knew her, and prayed that Roman had finished for the day and gone home already. 

Radiating energy, Juraj led her to a table and pulled the chair out for her to sit.  When he’d taken a seat opposite her he carried on where he’d left off.

“I did not come to America to eat  _kapustnica_.  Yet ever since I have been here, all I have had is that, and  _pirohy_ , and cakes and cakes and more cakes.  I have not set foot in a single restaurant.  I have seen more Slovaks in this country than I did in Slovakia.  All I want now,” he declared, leaning forward, “is some American food.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then.”

Hana’s heart skipped, then sank when she saw his dark countenance.  “Roman,” she gasped. 

“Roman?”  Juraj looked from her to him and then back; he could not fail to note her stricken expression, or his frown.

For some reason it seemed important to be polite, as if that would keep his anger from boiling over.  “Roman, this is Juraj—” 

Before she could finish he leapt up and offered his hand.  “Call me George,” he said, wearing an inscrutable smile, “George Richman.”  Roman’s frown deepened, and he waited a terribly long time before taking the hand held out to him.

“Are you still working?” she asked timidly.

“Just knocked off when I saw ya come in.”

“Then join us, please!”  Without waiting for a response Juraj—or perhaps George now—grabbed a chair from a nearby table and dragged it over.  As he’d done at the door he stood expectantly until his directions were followed; then he resumed his seat and regarded Roman keenly.  “Now, what is good to eat here?”

“Uh…”  He glanced at her, clearly confused.  “Lotsa people had the corned beef today.”

Juraj grinned for the first time since she’d met him. It transformed his face, made him more likable.  “Corned beef!  I have never heard of such a thing.  How exciting.  What would you like?” he asked, waving a hand to summon a waiter.

“A sarsaparilla, please?”

“Anything for you, Roman?”

“Just for somebody to tell me what’s goin’ on here.”

As Juraj ordered, she took the opportunity to fill in a gap.  “This is Juraj Boháčik, our guest at lunch on Sunday.”

“Huh.  An’ you two got along so good that ya had to meet up again?  Where I work?”  His eyes skated across her face and away, but it was ample time for her to see the hurt there. 

Juraj cut in before she could protest.  “I asked Hana out today because I wanted the chance to talk frankly with her, without her parents listening in.”

“Don’t we all,” Roman said, head tipped up to the ceiling. 

Juraj studied him for a moment, long enough for Roman to notice the silence and turn his attention to the other man.  His broad face grew serious.  “I can assure you that my interest in Hana is not at all romantic.”

“Good,” he said; then, belligerently, “Why not?”

“I have no plans to stay in New York,” he confided, “so it would be foolish to grow attached to anyone here.”  As logical as that sounded, there was a shuttering in his eyes that suggested it was not the only reason.  “In fact, that is what I wanted to talk to you about.  What do you know about California?”

She frowned, trying to make sense of the conversation.  “You want to go all the way to California to be a lawyer?”

“This is why I wanted to talk away from parents and aunts and uncles.  They insisted that I study law; they are sure that I will grow rich and powerful.  They do not understand dreams.”  Juraj rolled his eyes.  Away from their elders he was a different person: not the carefully composed graduate lately come from Vienna, but a freer, faster young man.  Was she that much different apart from her parents? she wondered.  At his talk of dreams she couldn’t help but glance at Roman, smiling just a little when she saw him looking at her, his expression softening.  

Juraj went on, “I do not want to be a lawyer, not yet. I do not know what I want to be, but there are many things I could be in America.  And I know there is gold in California, and silver in Nevada.”

“I’m pretty sure most o’ the gold’s already been found.”  Roman took a sip from her glass. 

“The point is the opportunity.  The adventure.”  Excitement lit Juraj’s features; it reminded her of the look on Jack’s face when he’d contemplated roping bears.   He would fit in well in this country, she decided, so long as he followed his own course.  Juraj spread his arms wide over his pastrami sandwich.  “There is a whole wild continent out there to explore, and they want me to sit behind a desk. Who would want to work in an office when there is so much out there?  Why would anyone want to stay in this little city?”

“I could think of a reason,” Roman said, and his hand closed over hers.

* * *

With Roman there to see her home, Juraj said goodbye outside Tibby’s.  The two men had arranged to meet in a few days; though Roman didn’t know anything about California or how to get there, he’d agreed to introduce Juraj—or George Richman, the American name he’d chosen for his escape—to some fellows who might be able to help him out. He assured her that he would not run away without telling his aunt and uncle of his plans; nor would he go without saying goodbye. They had left him staring off to the west, a grin on his face. 

Hana held Roman’s hand tight all the way home and up the stairs, not letting go even when he stopped at the open door.  She looked her shoulder, ready to pull him in with a teasing smile, when she felt his hand tense and saw him stiffen. 

“Roman,” Mama said.  Hana stepped back to stand beside him, her shoulders squared.  She tightened her grip as Mama looked between them; some sorrow flitted across her face and then she lowered her head humbly.  “Will you stay for dinner?  Please?”

_Don’t make me choose.  Please, not today._

Then he nodded, and crossed the threshold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pan = Mr.
> 
> Pani = Mrs.
> 
> Slečna = Miss
> 
> Teší ma = Pleased to meet you
> 
> kapustnica = sauerkraut soup
> 
> pirohy = pierogies
> 
> Juraj is the Slovak form of George and boháč literally means rich man, so his alias is just his name anglicized. This kid should not be allowed to practice law.
> 
> JACK: THE PLOT THICKENS


	35. Meta: A Portrait of Hana

Though this _kroj_ isn't what Hana would wear, this young lady from Vajnory, Slovakia, looks about how I imagine Hana.  Image via [Le Regret De Temps Passes](https://leregretdestempspasses.tumblr.com/post/163996497139/vajnory-slovakia).

 


	36. Dancing (22 August 1904)

“Don’t be silly, of course you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do!”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do, I’ve seen you.” In demonstration Pauline put her hands on her hips and spun once. “Remember, when we went to the theater? And you’re good. You hardly need me to teach you anything.”

Hana flung a hand out dismissively. “I mean _American_ dancing. Like the waltz.”

“I believe the waltz originated in Austria,” Pauline said primly. “Just because something is popular here doesn’t mean Americans thought it up.” Hana stuck out her tongue.

“If you keep that up, no one will want to dance with you.”

“Are you certain?”

“Well, I won’t, and then who’ll teach you?” Pauline crossed her arms, satisfied that she would win this particular battle. There were other people she could ask, most likely, but it wouldn’t be as fun with them as it would with Pauline. She made a show of arranging her features into a demure expression, and Pauline smirked.

“I’ll teach you to waltz, and in return you show me how a Slovak dances. But you must wear the right skirt, that goes up when you twirl.” Her eyes sparkled. Trust Pauline to remember a detail like that.

“Fine,” Hana agreed. “But it may take some time to find my skirt, so the waltz first.”

“Deal.” Pauline held out her hand, and they shook on it.

* * *

They kept the trunk in a corner, covered by an embroidered cloth and acting as a table. Inside it were some of the most precious things the family had brought over land and sea—things to be kept and cherished, not used every day.

Kneeling in front of the trunk, Hana moved the small articles that were Jozef’s and her christening gowns and the tiny, soft shoes they’d taken their first toddling steps in. Not far down she spotted a familiar pleated swath of fabric and pulled it free, shaking out the smell of years. As she stood, skirt held to her waist, she realized how she’d grown since she was thirteen. Not so much in height; her skirt was only a little shorter than she remembered it being. But while it had been fine for a girl to wear a skirt that just passed her knees, it would be scandalous for her to wear something so short now. She put it to one side.

As she’d suspected it might, the straight underskirt pulled tight around her hips, so snug that she would be unable to dance even a little in it. Though the blouse and vest could not possibly fit any better she tugged them on anyway; the short sleeves dug into her upper arms, and the vest refused to close over her bosom, unimpressive though it was. Mama’s underskirt would fit, and Hana found a plain blouse that looked roomier than hers. Those she set apart separate from her own things. But Mama’s best vest was fancy, a dark red with white piping forming sinuous shapes down the front and back, and an embroidered garden bloomed around the edge of her dark apron. The last time she’d worn them had been to Christmas Eve Mass their first winter in New York; since then them had not seen the light of day, staying tucked away. It seemed silly, almost disrespectful, to wear them for something so frivolous as showing off for a friend. Yet she owed it to Pauline to at least ask.

She was folding a blouse and pondering how to broach the subject when Mama came in. Her expression was unreadable as she surveyed the clothing spread around the trunk.

“I wanted to show Pauline my things,” Hana explained in Slovak. “And you know, she will want to see them on me, not just like this. But…”

“You’ve grown,” Mama said matter-of-factly. _Kids do that_ , echoed Mr. Kloppman’s voice in her head. But there were more clothes unpacked than just Hana’s alone, and Mama hadn’t failed to notice that. She stared into the trunk for a long moment, eyes far off; and she had to swallow before she spoke again. “If mine fit you—” Hana nodded guiltily. “—then wear them.”

“But I am not married.” Somewhere, deeper down in the trunk, may have been the outfit Mama wore as a girl, before she married Tatko; the one Hana had found was for a wife to wear. And here she was, in that in-between place, no longer a girl and not yet a bride. The thought made her feel less lonely than she would have expected.

Mama shrugged. “She won’t know the difference anyway. And I won’t tell anyone you wore the wrong thing.” The two shared a smile, and Hana’s heart lightened. The changes between them had been weighing on her; seeing her mother smile was a relief. “They’re doing no good to anyone sitting here,” she went on. “You should wear them if it will make Pauline happy.”

She picked up her vest and looked at it as if for the first time. “What a pity girls here don’t wear such things for their weddings.” Was there a wistful note in her tone? The three of them had gone to a few weddings in New York; most recent was the wedding of a couple from the parish where the bride had worn a simple white dress, with only the quality of the material marking it as special. (That ceremony had occurred somewhat sooner than originally planned, though, which explained much of what had happened at the ceremony, including the way the bride’s father glared at the groom throughout.) And of course in the photograph Zuzana’s gown was beautiful and modern; in it no one would have reason to think she was anything other than American born and bred. There were women here who would know the patterns, the stitches to make new _kroj_ ; the fabrics and laces and ribbons could be found. But would it be the same if the clothes were made in America? Would anyone dare to dress like a village girl on these city streets?

“The wedding dresses in the magazines now are long, white gowns. Who knows what the fashion will be in the future?” Hana could feel Mama’s eyes watching her, could sense the words unsaid; but she went right on folding.

* * *

From her apartment Pauline climbed through the window, onto the fire escape, and up, with Hana following. A group of children played in one corner of the roof while their older sister watched from a shady spot; no one else was around, for which Hana was thankful. She stretched, rolling her neck and lifting her face to the sun.

Pauline got straight to work. “As you know, the waltz is counted in three.” She began to hum, clapping the beat one-two-three one-two-three; then she launched into the chorus of “Daisy Bell.” A moment later she raised her hands and whirled away, humming, and Hana watched her feet moving in time to the beat. Step-together, step-together it went, Pauline’s footprints forming a square in the dust on the roof.

When the square brought Pauline close again Hana took a position next to her. Side by side they walked through the steps together. It didn’t take long before both were satisfied; then Pauline moved to face Hana.

“The man leads. On the dance floor as in life, it is his job to guide his partner around any obstacles that might present themselves.” The words sounded as if she were reciting them from a teacher or a text; Hana supposed the latter was more likely. Pauline offered a hand, bowing at the waist, and lowered her voice to ask, “Would you care to dance?”

“Yes, thank you.” Pauline lifted Hana’s left hand to her shoulder, then raised their joined hands. She hummed a few bars before nodding and stepping out.

It was easy enough, though it would be easier with real music. As Pauline’s humming reached the chorus again Hana joined in, singing, “ _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do_.”

“ _I’m half crazy all for the love of you_ ,” Pauline crooned in a melodramatic air, leering at her partner, who laughed, giddy. The girls waltzed around the roof, goofing and giggling, stomping and prancing and spinning until they lost their breath.

* * *

Tumbler stood mesmerized by the carousel, and little wonder. Its gaily-painted horses glided up and down on gilded poles as the platform spun; well-dressed children shrieked and laughed as they rode, and the organ played a jaunty march punctuated by mechanical cymbals. Roman was already fishing for coins in his pocket when he asked Tumbler, “Want a ride?”

“I ain’t a little kid,” he answered, eyes fixed on the ride. As they watched the march ground to a halt; then the organ squealed into “The Sidewalks of New York.” With sudden exuberance Pauline clapped her hands together.

“Oh! Hana, show Roman what you’ve learned.”

Curious, he turned his attention to her, while Hana looked around them. It was a lovely day, which meant that people filled the park’s paths; they were not the only group lingering near the carousel to listen to its music. Though she was fairly confident in her ability, she wasn’t sure there was any need to make a spectacle of herself. “Here?”

“Don’t be shy. Look,” she said, reaching down to take hold of Tumbler’s hand, “Andy and I will start.” When he peered up at her with one eyebrow raised she asked sweetly, “Will you dance with me, please, Andy?”

In the time since they’d first met, Tumbler’s infatuation with the young lady had calmed into a sincere admiration and friendly affection. Now with her invitation it returned with a vengeance, and he nodded eagerly, settling his hand delicately in the curve of her waist. Hana stole a glance at Roman; his face glowed with a proud grin. The partners bumped and stumbled a bit at first—“I don’t think he’s ever danced with a girl before,” Roman whispered—but they both had smiles on their pink-cheeked faces.

“What do ya say?” She looked up to see Roman with a hand extended, his smile a little nervous. “ _Smím prosit?_ ”

She held in a swoony sigh at the gentlemanly way in which he made the offer. “ _Áno, prosím._ ”

Dancing with Roman was not a bit like dancing with Pauline. The steps were the same, but everything else was different: the muscles of his shoulder, the span of his hand on her waist. He signaled changes of direction with a press or pull of his hand; it was a thrill to realize how smoothly they moved together, how much nearer he stood than Pauline had. Even while staring into his eyes she didn’t stumble—couldn’t have stepped wrong if she tried, not while she was in his arms.

Eventually she realized that the music had changed and they had drawn to a stop. He was looking down at her with mouth turned up in a smile; without thinking she rose to her toes and was halfway to kissing him when there was an exaggerated groan from Tumbler. “Better not,” Roman warned, though his eyes kept sliding away from hers to her lips. “We don’t wanna get kicked out of the park.”

“Don’t we?” Her voice came out breathless.

He chuckled, and it only served to deepen the ache she felt inside. “Nah.” When at last she turned away from him she saw that now it was Pauline who had stars in her eyes as she watched them.

On the walk home Roman hummed the song they’d danced to until Tumbler stopped in his tracks and threatened to soak him if he didn’t quit.

“Jealous you missed your turn with me?” Roman asked, and without waiting for an answer he grabbed Tumbler and began waltzing him down the street, singing at the top of his lungs. The girls fell into each other’s arms in gales of laughter as at first Tumbler tried to free himself, bawling for the other to let him go already and trying to stomp on Roman’s feet. Once he realized he couldn’t escape his brother’s grip he decided that if he had to dance he was going to lead. At that Roman shot him a quick grin before switching to a thin falsetto mid-verse, and the two danced away wildly, Hana and Pauline skipping after them.

* * *

The first thing Pauline did upon seeing Hana in her mother’s _kroj_ was demand that she twirl. Then she demanded that she do it again after taking off the apron, as it kept the skirt from lifting much. Without the weight it spun much more satisfactorily.

She had never before wondered what it was like to be one of the mannequins in a shop, but she knew now. Pauline circled her, examining each item Hana wore. “I could take it off,” she offered as Pauline leaned close to peer at the vest, but she shook her head.

“It wouldn’t look right,” she said. “This is how it’s meant to be seen.” She nodded, as much to herself as to Hana. Still, she didn’t make Hana try to struggle into her old things, though she looked over them intently.

Once the fashion show was complete Hana attempted to teach her the steps to a simple dance. The process was complicated by the fact that Pauline didn’t know the music, which was less regular in meter than the waltz, and that Hana couldn’t sing and give directions at the same time. After a few less than successful minutes Pauline begged off.

“Show me, please. I’d rather just watch you.” She made herself comfortable on the settee, taking care to arrange her skirt so it wouldn’t wrinkle; then she folded her hands in her lap and looked at Hana expectantly.

Hana lifted the sides of her skirt out and began to sing. The song began at a sedate pace, the steps matching it; but soon the tempo increased, and she kicked and stomped and clicked her heels and spun, almost able to hear the violins and _cimbal_ in her head. When the song ended she was panting, hands on her hips and skirt swishing around her calves.

Pauline applauded enthusiastically. “Oh, well done! You look so wild with your braids whipping around like that, like a different girl.”

Maybe it was the lightheadedness from the spinning, or the exertion from the dance, but the comment struck a sour chord. She really looked at Pauline for maybe the first time: at the girl’s delicate complexion, her soft, clean hands, her unbowed shoulders and long grown-up dress. Well-dressed Pauline was vivacious, spirited; she was wild, like an animal. “It must be very primitive to you, this dancing.” She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but there it was.

“Primitive?” Her eyebrows knit. “No, I wouldn’t say—”

Hana plucked at the vest, the apron. “This looks like a girl in your fairy tales. The poor peasant, the stupid farm girl. This is not a girl who belongs in New York.” She glanced at the photograph on the table, at Zuzana’s gown and her hauteur, and was overcome with the desire to knock the picture over. Instead she sat down heavily.

For a moment there was only the sound of her labored breathing. Then, her words quiet and fervent, Pauline said, “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.” The gaze she leveled at Hana across the room was steely. “What does it matter what you wear? It’s just clothes.”

There were fashion magazines stacked fifteen high in Pauline’s room. She made her living telling women what clothing suited them best. Hana could have laughed that she dared to make such a remark.

“That outfit simply means that you can do the dance the way it should be done,” she went on crisply. “It is appropriate for the activity in which you are engaged, which means the dress itself cannot be inappropriate in any way. The dancing is…energetic, yes. But it’s dancing for strong people, who feel deeply. Anyone can waltz,” she scoffed. “I can’t do what you just did, but I can waltz for hours. My _grandmother_ can waltz—she doesn’t, because she thinks it’s immodest to dance so close to one’s partner, but she could if she wanted to. What emotion is there in the waltz? What life, what passion?”

Passion? If she closed her eyes she could feel his hand on her waist, could see the warmth of his gaze. Her experiences with the waltz so far had all been quite invigorating. She bit her lip and dropped her chin.

“Girls like me are a dime a dozen in this city. I’m pretty and smart, but not enough of either to make me stand out. You know so much more than I do,” Pauline said, sounding sad; “you’ve lived more than I have. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”

It had never crossed her mind that Pauline, so confident and self-possessed, would feel anything other than at home here. She’d been born here; if she didn’t belong, who did? And to think that Hana knew more than her… Well, she supposed there was some sense to that. The longer she mulled it over, the more she understood what Pauline meant.

She rose from the chair by the window and crossed to join Pauline on the settee. For a moment she looked down at their skirts, the one striped and patterned with roses, the other falling in dark pleats. Then she took her friend’s hand, squeezing it until she looked over.

“But we are here now.” They were there now, and they would both go on and do what needed to be done, regardless of how they felt.

Pauline nodded in understanding, her gaze drifting away. But then it returned to Hana, and when she smiled she looked more herself again. “In all of the fairy tales my mother ever told me, the peasant girl is the kindest, and the farm girl is the wisest. Her virtue is rewarded in the end.” It was her turn to squeeze Hana’s hand, and her smile brightened, and she stood up.

“Show me again,” she said. “I can do it.” Then she reached for Hana’s old skirt. “As long as I’m dressed for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smím prosit? = Shall we dance? 
> 
> Áno, prosím. = Yes, please.
> 
> kroj = folk costume 
> 
> cimbal = a kind of hammered dulcimer common in Slovak folk music 
> 
> The term for folk dress in Slovak and Czech is kroj (plural kroje). Kroj varies by region, so there’s no standard costume. 
> 
> Again, time is a complicating factor; kroje would have been simpler in the past, and in some cases it’s grown quite fancy. Of course this change is a product of increasing prosperity and availability of materials. 
> 
> I haven’t been able to find a concrete example of Revúca’s kroj. Even searching for gemerský kroj (from the Gemer region) shows a variety of outfits. I ended up just describing a really general outfit (blouse, vest, skirt, apron). It’s simple but also based more on modern folklore groups’ costumes, rather than what Hana and her mom would actually own.
> 
> The site Folklormania has a gallery of kroj by region. Hover over “Požičovňa krojov” in the top menu bar to drop down to the gallery, where you can browse by region or parts of the kroj (the options there are bridal headpieces and caps and scarves).
> 
> My kroj tag over on Tumblr is mostly Slovak things, with some Czech and Polish.
> 
> Pocarovna posts a lot of Central and Eastern European folk dress and crafts, with an emphasis on Slovakia. 
> 
> “The Sidewalks of New York” was written by Charles B. Lawlor in 1894; ain’t no way all of the newsies wouldn’t have known that song. “Daisy Bell,” AKA “A Bicycle Built for Two,” was written by Harry Dacre in 1892.
> 
> In case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t dance, and I certainly don’t know anything about the actual mechanics of Slovak folk dancing, let alone the proper names for dances or moves thereto. I don’t even know how to describe the way their legs go. Anyway, Hana’s supposed to be doing part of a karička.


	37. Hana at the Ceili

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be just a quick rundown of a scenario and I was gonna send it straight to the Editor for her enjoyment but then it got out of hand.

(Why are they invited to a ceili?  I don’t know, and that’s one of the reasons this isn’t a real story.)

When she and Roman arrive they first have to meet Spot Conlon.  Even if the ceili isn’t in Brooklyn (and I can’t imagine the Kollárs being thrilled about Roman taking their daughter all the way to another borough), he’s there. 

Hana finds him super intimidating.  There is an intensity in his eyes and a sense of potential about him that frightens her.  (Anna is fine, though.)

Spot finds this reaction satisfying.  Apart from that he immediately sees that she herself poses no threat; Skitts’ protectiveness of her could be an issue, though.

Even if he wants more, Roman only has one whiskey.  He knows he’s got to watch out for his girl.

He lets her have a sip since she’s never tried whiskey before.  It’s smokier than  _slivovica_  but just as strong and warming.  A sip is enough for her.

At first they just watch.  Sitting is fine, since no one seems to care if he puts his arm around her.  The band has a violin and an accordion, which is familiar to her; but there’s also a weird drum and wow, that whistle is shrill.  (Slovak music uses a variety of wooden flutes, which have a warmer tone than tin whistles.)

A couple of people show off by dancing solo, and it doesn’t look  _too_  different from what she’s used to.  Irish dancing strikes her as more linear and angular than Slovak dancing, somehow.  Still, she thinks that she could do what they’re doing, given enough time to practice. 

The reels should be easy, though.  And when Anna comes over with a young man and tells her he’ll teach her and not try anything, she goes readily enough.  Anna takes her seat (probably seizing the opportunity to tell Skittery a thing or two he should know about Catholic girls and their parents) and eventually gets Skitts to dance.  The sight of him with a tiny blond girl would be amusing to many if the girl wasn’t her husband’s wife and her father’s daughter.  That makes it  _hilarious_.

(In general Hana wouldn’t get jealous if she saw Roman being pursued by another girl; she’d get scared.  But this is a party, and neither of them is going to insist that they dance together the whole time.)

Once she’s dancing, Hana has plenty of partners, including Roman.  Skitts is happiest when they’re dancing together, not only because he’s stupidly in love with her, but because if she’s with him then he doesn’t have to worry about how another guy may be treating her.  Most of her other partners are happy and a little drunk and fun to dance with.

(Pauline has obviously never been to a ceili.  Talk about wild dancing…)

The problem is that Hana has trouble understanding people’s accents at this particular shindig.  Some aren’t too bad, like Spot’s, but there are some more recent arrivals from Ireland there, and she hasn’t a clue what those people are saying most of the time.  It’s fine when it’s just “D’ye want ta dance?” and “Up ye get,” but one young man wants to stick around and chat after their dance is done.  At least that’s what she thinks he wants.  He’s Irish and has had a bit to drink and it’s loud and her ears are tired, and he probably means no harm but she can’t seem to get away as he pulls her toward where the drinks are.

Then Skittery’s back from the bathroom and rushing to her rescue–he definitely sees it as a rescue; she’d say she just needed help.  He pulls her away and steps between her and the fella, whose smile is more sharp-edged now.  Hana doesn’t understand what he says but it’s clear that Roman takes offense at it.  He manages to stop himself before calling the guy a “stupid Mick,” remembering where he is just in time, but being called stupid is enough to get the guy to throw a punch. 

It’s very quick as far as fights go: the guy gets in the first punch to Skitts’ face and another to his stomach, but Skitts has got a lot of pent-up anxiety and…other feelings and hasn’t gotten to punch anyone in a while (he’s been trying  _so hard_  to be a good person and a responsible adult, to do the right thing for Tumbler and Hana and himself, but he’s struggling against some of his oldest habits and sometimes he feels like a spring coiled too tight) so he really takes advantage of the opportunity to knock this guy a good one right in the mug.  The other dude staggers back and then, to Hana’s total shock, gives them a huge, bloody grin.

“Fair play to ya,” the fella says, “didn’t see that left comin’.  Sorry abou’ tha’ wit’ your girl an’ all.”  Of course she understands none of this, but it seems to placate Roman.

Then, instead of more punching, he’s shaking Roman’s hand and dragging  _him_  to the drinks and they’re drinking whiskey together like old friends.

What, Hana thinks.

But then she looks at Roman.  His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and his hair is mussed, and the knuckles of his left hand are red, and there’s a cut across his cheek where the guy hit him.  He looks looser, less tense, and suddenly powerful.  She’d thought she had a good idea about how strong he was; she’s touched his shoulders, his neck, his arms enough to feel the muscles there.  But this is raw and real, and while she’d been afraid as the punches flew, now it isn’t fear that’s sparking through her veins.  And when he comes back to her and takes her through one more reel she notices every thing about him: the sweat prickling at his hairline and the quickness of his breaths and the heat in his eyes and his hands, and she thinks it’s the same heat that’s filling her.  She knows she probably ought to feel scandalized by or ashamed of her reaction, but she doesn’t care.

After that dance they slip out, Skittery raising a hand to Spot as they go.  Once they’re gone he smirks, glad he’s married and doesn’t have to worry about certain frustrations anymore.  (Being married gives you plenty of other things to worry about, though.)

Outside they don’t say anything for a few minutes, simply heading toward home, holding each other’s hands like a lifeline.  But then she pulls him into the nearest alley, crowds him near the wall, and kisses him, hard.  He hisses in pain at first but then his mouth is open and his tongue tastes like whiskey.  She presses against him, sure she can’t be close enough to him; he grimaces a little beneath her lips and moves her away from the place where he’d been punched before wrapping one arm around her, his other hand cupping her jaw.  When he breaks the kiss it’s too soon, even though they’re both breathing hard; but his arm stays securely around her and he rests his forehead against hers.  

She remembers what Mama had said about him, about what he wanted from her.  But she’s even more sure now that Mama was wrong.  So she takes his hand from her face and kisses the bruised knuckles softly, reverently, and his gasp isn’t one of pain.

It takes longer than it should for them to get home.  There are a lot of alleyways between the ceili and her building. 

(Roman has to dodge her parents for a few days so they don’t find out about what happened and decide he’s too dangerous for her to see anymore.  It’s worth it.

He’s worth everything.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: WOULD YA LOOK AT THESE HOOLIGANS!!!!!!!!!!!


	38. Butterflies (25 August 1904)

“Betcha it’s a girl.”  He snickered.  “Imagine Cowboy with a daughter.  He’s already outnumbered; with a daughter he’d have three girls tellin’ him what to do.”

Imagining Jack with a baby girl was no problem.  The expression of awe and tenderness he wore when looking at Sarah would only be magnified when he held a tiny daughter of his own.  By the way Roman’s own expression softened, he must have realized it, too.

“Lucky for you, you will always have Tumbler on your side.”  The boy in question was not far away, practicing his cartwheels.

“Yep.  You’d think I woulda been able to get rid of him after all this time, but it looks like I’m stuck with him.” 

They’d been sitting side by side under a tree, their legs stretched out in front of them, Roman leaning back on his hands.  Now she watched in mild puzzlement as he scooted forward and then away from her, angling his back toward her.  His aim became apparent when he lay down, carefully resting his head just above her knees.  His head, she thought over the rushing in her ears, was not in her lap; that was patently obvious.  He looked up at her sideways.

“Is this okay?” he asked.  His tone was neutral, as if he wouldn’t mind either way; but he already looked so comfortable there, his face so relaxed, that she knew he’d prefer not to move.  And to be honest, she had no desire for him to.

She nodded.  “It’s fine.”  He smiled and thanked her as he made himself more comfortable, crossing his ankles and flopping a hand onto his stomach.

As Hana gazed at him an idea came to her.  When she was younger she had always loved it when Mama combed her hair.  The comb gently tugging through her thick tresses felt wonderful, though it was never quite as pleasant when she combed her own hair.  She didn’t have a comb, and his hair was much shorter than hers, but maybe he would still enjoy the feeling.  Gently, carefully, she slid her fingers through his hair; he responded with a noise of satisfaction not unlike a cat’s purr.

“C’mere,” he said, reaching up to cup the back of her neck and pull her toward him, sitting up halfway to kiss her softly.  “I tell you yet today that I love you?” he murmured, his fingertips stroking her neck.  She shook her head, thinking that she might’ve lied even if he had, just to hear him say it again.  “ _Miluju tě_ ,  _Hanka moja_.”

“ _A tiež ťa milujem_.”

“ _Dobře_ ,” he said, and, smiling, kissed her once more before releasing her and leaning back.  As he subsided his eyes slid closed, and she resumed carding her fingers through his hair.  He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?” she asked, curling a lock of hair around her finger.

His face looked pink, though that could have been from the way the sun sifted through the leaves above.  “I wish I could do this for you,” he repeated, opening eyes that gleamed in the sunlight, “get your hair down outta all those pins and run my hands through it.  Show you how nice it feels.”  He bit his lip, but didn’t look away.  Just hearing it was enough to make her shiver; knowing he wanted to touch her—that he thought about it, wished for it—made her heart race.  

“One day,” she promised.  Maybe it was foolish and wanton to say such a thing, but how else could she respond when he was looking at her like that, his breath hitching as she gently scratched his scalp?  What else could she possibly say with a heart so buoyant and full? 

“Can’t wait.”  He was smiling as his eyes shut again.

Beneath the tree it was cool and pleasant as a breeze stirred the park’s foliage.  Hana stared into the distance, mind sliding smoothly from thought to thought as she threaded her fingers through Roman’s hair.  She was not surprised when she noticed that his breathing had deepened and his features slackened in sleep.  

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Tumbler returned.  His disgust at the scene was apparent on his face as he approached.  She raised a finger to her lips in time to stop him from voicing it, though.

“He is sleeping,” she whispered when he was near enough to hear.  He sighed gustily and threw himself down next to her.  For a while he engaged in the pastime of children the world over and tore up fistfuls of grass; but he kept glancing at Roman and then at her, and there was a thoughtful look on his young face. 

At length he spoke, quietly enough that it seemed unlikely to wake Roman.  “You love him, huh.”  

“Yes.”

“Not like in a friendly way,” he went on, “in a real…a real lovey-dovey way.”

She just giggled in response, amused by his terminology.  He dragged his hands down his face, revealing the red undersides of his eyelids; given that mature reaction, she wondered if he would abandon the subject. 

But he persisted.  “How do ya know?”  At her questioning look he slid his gaze away, muttering, “That ya love him like that?”

“Don’t you love him?” 

He squirmed and tossed a pebble.  “I guess,” he admitted, “but not like you do.  He’s my brother.”

“How do  _you_ know?” 

“He’s my brother,” he repeated.  And that, she suspected, was all he’d allow on the subject.  Hana could have talked on and on about all of Jozef’s good qualities, all of the times he’d made some tiny sacrifice for her, all of the ways she was proud of him; but then, she was not a nearly-twelve-year-old boy with a reputation to uphold. 

For a moment she weighed her words, wanting to give him the best answer she could.  At the same time she tried to figure out why he’d asked.  It wasn’t, she thought, that he was questioning whether or not she really loved him; if that were the case he’d be glaring more, demanding she prove herself.  This, with curiosity barely trumping discomfort, seemed like an honest question from a kid who knew a lot about life on the street, but not much about family life. 

“I know it is lovey-dovey because he makes me feel…”  Some kind of flies, some name that didn’t make sense in English.  She was afraid that if she stopped to try to explain he’d lose interest; so she went on without translation or description.  “… _motýle_ , here.”  She put a hand over her stomach. 

He gave her an incredulous look.  “I don’t know what that means, an’ it’s still the girliest thing I ever heard.”

She didn’t doubt it.  “When you love someone—with any kind of love—you want to take care of them.  Roman looks out for you, yes?  Makes sure you eat, and have enough to pay Mr. Kloppman?”  He nodded.  “And Jack, he does things for Sarah, to make it easier for her, or to make her happy.”

As he mulled this over, she went on.  “I want the best for him.  He should be happy, even…even if I am not there.”  That wasn’t quite right; it made it sound like she might leave.  “If it is not with me that he is happy,” she tried again, her voice quieter than before. 

Something about her answer made Tumbler looked stricken, just for a moment. Then he hastily put on a frown.  “Oh, he’s happy with you, alright,” he grumbled, though his attitude was not entirely convincing.  “That’s obvious.”

She smiled at Roman, whose eyes flickered beneath their lids, and wondered if he was dreaming.  When she looked up Tumbler was watching her; she turned her full attention to him, hoping she’d answered him well enough.  His hair hung in his eyes and she had to stop herself from pushing it back.  “I want you to be happy, too.”  It was the most she dared tell him. 

“Huh.”  He scrubbed a hand under his nose, and chewed at the inside of his cheek.  “Thanks.  I…  Thanks.”  

Then Roman stretched, throwing his arms out to either side and turning his head to nuzzle against her knee.  He opened his eyes to catch sight of Tumbler.  “Hey, kid,” he yawned.  “You ready to go?”

Nodding, Tumbler hopped up and bounded away.  Roman took more time to rise.  Once on his feet he dusted off the seat of his pants with both hands while she watched to make sure no grass remained clinging to his trousers.  He held out his hands to her and she took them; then he pulled her up with such strength that she bumped straight into his chest.  

“Want me to get the grass off your skirt for ya?” he offered, grinning cheekily.  

She rolled her eyes.  “I think I can manage, thank you.”  Chuckling, he ducked his head to kiss her briefly. 

When she pulled back she expected him to drop her hands so they could join Tumbler.  Instead he raised them, placing them on his stomach.  Her eyes widened in both surprise and curiosity; but he simply smiled and said, “ _Motýli_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miluju tě, Hanka moja. = I love you, my Hanka.
> 
> A tiež ťa milujem. = And I love you, too. 
> 
> Dobře = good
> 
> motýle/motýli = butterflies
> 
> JACK: “I don’t know what that means, an’ it’s still the girliest thing I ever heard.” 
> 
> GET USED TO DEALIN’ WITH WOMEN, TUMBLER!


	39. Going (28 August 1904)

“I’m goin’,” he announced, and almost before she knew what was happening he’d crossed the room and opened the door.

“Hey!” she cried, hastening from her seat and hurling herself forward, ignoring her parents’ concern.  He was already in the hall; she followed, planting herself outside the door and demanding, “ _Poď sem!_ ”  She was surprised by the volume of her words, surprised that they’d made it past her heart in her throat, threatening to choke her.  What if he ignored her and kept going?  For a horrible minute it looked like she’d find out.

What if he walked out of her life, and she just stood there?

She’d taken a step, ready to run after him, when he turned.  There was a slump to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, a heaviness in his tread as he returned.  He stopped just outside of arm’s distance from her.  “Yeah?” he muttered, sounding wary, staring over the top of her head.

It was hard to remember that she’d been—was—angry when he looked so miserable.  Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.  He wasn’t forgiven yet.  “You can’t leave like that, without saying goodbye.”

“Why not?”  His shoulders jerked up and down, marionette-like.  “I wanted to go, so I went.”

She frowned.  Even someone who’d grown up in a lodginghouse had to have more manners than that, and he’d never acted this way before—had not scowled over his coffee and snapped answers to every question he’d been asked.  “It’s not polite.”  As if that was what was really important.  It occurred to her dimly that she should make him come inside so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear; there would be gossip later, that much was certain.  But right now none of that was important, either.

His laugh was bitter as he crossed his arms over his chest.  “Well, excuse me for not bein’ the kind of fancy gentleman that your folks’d actually like.”

“They like you!” she protested, knowing that they couldn’t be pleased at the moment.

The glint in his eyes was almost one of satisfaction.  “They ain’t gonna anymore.  Not after I ran outta there like that.”

“It will be fine.  It doesn’t matter that you aren’t fancy, as long as you are nice.”

“I ain’t nice, an’ that’s what matters.  It matters to them, an’ it matters to you, an’ it all matters too much.”  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, hard enough that she winced, before jamming his arms crossed again and dropping his chin nearly to his chest.  She chanced a step toward him; when he didn’t respond she moved closer, each step deliberate.

“You are nice,” she said quietly.  “You are a good man.  I would not love you if you weren’t.”

His head bobbed up a little.  “Still?”  The mingled hope and disbelief in his voice squeezed her already-aching heart.

“I should stop because of this?”

“Yes,” he said seriously, looking up to meet her eyes for the first time.  In the hall’s dim light they seemed unfathomably deep and sad.  “You should get out before—”  He swallowed hard. 

“Before I fall in love with you?  It is too late for that.”  She smiled as well as she could, hoping the reminder would lighten his mood; but he shook his head.

“I’m no good for ya, Hana.  I got a bad attitude an’ no future.”  His voice was bleak as he parroted words he’d heard somewhere before.  “I’m only gonna disappoint ya, an’ ya shouldn’t have to deal with that.  I’m not worth your time.  Ya deserve somebody better, somebody who’ll treat ya right.”

“So do you.”  He shook his head again with eyes closed.  She reached up to touch his face, her fingertips light against his cheek; he flinched at first but then sighed slowly, waveringly.  “I love you, Roman.  If you don’t want to see me anymore, that is…”  She couldn’t force out the lie that it would be fine; it stuck in her throat, hard and dry.  With an effort she swallowed, steeled herself; then, the words acrid on her tongue, said, “I will let you go, if that is what you want.  But I will still love you.”

Roman’s eyes opened; his mouth worked soundlessly.  “No,” he said finally, though it sounded more like a plea.  “Don’t let me go.”

She gathered him into her arms, holding him tight.  There was a pause before he leaned into her, bowing his head to nestle into the crook of her neck; it reminded her of nothing so much as a child seeking comfort.  Nose pressed into his collar she breathed in the now-familiar scent of him, felt his breaths rise and fall under her hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her shoulder.  It seemed easier for him to talk now with his head tucked down, and no chance of meeting her eyes.  His voice cracked as he went on.  “I love ya, Hana, an’ I never wanna hurt ya, but I will.  Hell, I’m doin’ it right now.  I know it, an’ I hate myself for it, an’ I’m…I’m scared.”

She was scared, too, so much so her knees trembled.  The fears warred within her: fear of losing him, fear of doing the wrong thing by not letting him go; fear of his past and fear for their future.  But it would not do her any good to give in to those fears, and it would not do him any good to know how afraid she was.  Instead she stroked his back until her hands stopped shaking.  “Then we will be brave together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poď sem = come here
> 
> JACK: THESE KIDS ARE KILLIN’ ME


	40. Meta: Hana's Ideal Future

**What is Hana's ideal future? (Job, where she lives, any family?)**

She’s long had expectations about her future, particularly in terms of her future family.  Remember, she was born in a society that was still fairly rural (especially in comparison with New York, which, for the record, is pretty much all that she knows of America; she’s seen pictures of other parts of the country, but this place is so huge and varied that it can be hard to conceptualize even if you’ve lived here your whole life); it was still the kind of situation where more children meant more hands to help with daily tasks.  In Revúca the household included not only her parents and brother but her father’s parents as well, and there was other family living nearby.  Back there she’d assumed that when she grew up she’d be able to stay home, keeping house and taking care of children—she imagines having at least two, but three or four for choice—and elders alike.  In America she’d like to continue living somewhere near family, whether that’s her parents or her brother and his family or both.  Jozef’s letters make Pittsburgh sound intellectually vibrant and culturally rich.  There are many Slovaks and Slovak-Americans there, and that appeals to Hana as well; though she’s part of the Slovak community in New York, mostly through church, she thinks it would be comfortable to be around more of her people, especially when raising her children.  No matter where they’re born or who their father is, she wants them to be aware that they are at least half Slovak, and to know what that means.  They’ll certainly grow up eating things like  _halušky_  and  _cesnaková polievka_ , and hearing their mother sing to them in Slovak.

Hana likes New York, but I think as time goes on and the city grows it might start to wear on her.  Though she’d prefer a proper house to an apartment, she does not aspire to live on a farm (though she could, quite capably); she likes the convenience and variety available in the city.  She would balk at moving to farmland in the middle of nowhere, someplace like Nebraska  or Iowa, no matter how many Czechs and Slovaks lived there; if circumstances made such a move unavoidable, though, she would come to terms with it and make the best of the situation.  But a place with a little more green, a little less crime, a few more trees than Manhattan: she finds that appealing.  In the early 1900s that could be as close as Westchester County; and in fact by the early 20th century many of New York’s Czechs had already moved out of Manhattan in favor of less-developed parts of Long Island and the Bronx ([source](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bohemianbenevolent.org%2Findex.php%2Fabout%2Fpastpresent&t=YjAyZDE3ZTVkMDRkZDEwNmZmZjFmMzY1ZjAzOWQ4NjVhMWU5YzVmYSwzeXBjZ3k4Sg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F164270174965%2Fwhat-is-hanas-ideal-future-job-where-she&m=1)).  The fact that she would not have to go far for a little more space is good, because the idea of moving away from her parents would seem like desertion to her.  It was different when Jozef left: he was a boy, and they’d all assumed he’d be going off to university anyway.  Hana would wrestle with guilt over the decision for a long time, even after her parents assured and reassured her that it was fine.  It would take a darn good reason for her to even want to go.

As mentioned previously, while she used to think that she’d be able to stay home as a wife and mother, she now knows that that would not be possible in the city.  And nowadays she’s not so sure she’d want to.  She wouldn’t go so far as to say she  _likes_  cleaning other people’s houses, but she’s very good at it, and finds it satisfying to see so clearly the results of her efforts.  She’s afraid it might be sinful to be proud of her work, but she is, and even though much of what she earns goes into the household with her parents’ wages, she enjoys the feeling of knowing she earned that money herself.  There’s also a bit of a voyeuristic aspect to cleaning houses—not in an intrusive, nosy, vulgar way, but she’s certainly learned a lot from the Roths and the Vande Kerks, whether they realize it or not.  She recognizes that it might not be good for her to want things she can’t afford, but really, there’s little chance that she’ll either start to overspend or become seriously discontented with what she has.  I think she’d likely keep doing the same kind of work for as long as it’s feasible, though she’d have to be careful not to be taken advantage; Hana’s the kind of person who’d do more than she really should if someone asked nicely.

She has the fortitude to live in whatever conditions life throws at her.  But in a perfect world she’d have a house all her own, with trees and flowers and a little garden outside, not far from her parents; and a few happy, healthy children; and a husband who could provide for all of them but more importantly who cared for her, body and soul.


	41. Five Moments (3 September 1904)

“Are you readin’ this?” 

“I am trying,” Hana admitted.  It was significantly harder than the romance she’d read most recently.  “Have you read it?”

“ _Little Women_?  Nah,” he said distantly, already scanning the first page.  “Heard about it, though.”

“Could you…read some to me?”  Though she felt childish asking it he nodded readily, his eyes shining.  

They sat facing each other on the settee and, after clearing his throat a little self-consciously, he began.  He read well, some of the burr of the streets smoothed away by Mrs. Alcott’s words, and soon both of them were lost in the story.

* * *

It was handy to have a man along as you shopped, though this one seemed not to realize what buying enough groceries to feed three (and sometimes more) entailed. After the dairy and the general store came the greengrocer; when he heard what she needed there—cabbage, carrots, potatoes—his eyebrows raised.  “You could carry all this alone?”

“No,” she admitted.

“So you’re usin’ me for my muscle.”  He hefted the sack of potatoes onto his shoulder, smirking as he caught her watching with obvious appreciation; then he swaggered out.  “Just don’t forget my tip,” he called over his shoulder.

* * *

“I’m  _starvin_ ’.”

“How’s that possible?  Ya just had lunch.”

“That was  _hours_  ago.”  Tumbler clutched his stomach.  “Can’t ya hear it grumblin’?”

“Not over your complainin’.”

Neither noticed as Hana slipped away, though they stopped bickering when she presented them each with a still-warm pretzel.  While Tumbler thanked her with his mouth full, Roman shook his head in mild reproof.

“He is growing.  And they smelled good,” she added, smiling as she broke off a bit of the pretzel he held and popped it in her mouth.  His lips twitched upward; then he too tore off a chunk and ate.

* * *

Despite the ominous clouds they’d chanced a walk, and now were trapped under an awning as rain pelted down, turning the streets to muck and showing no sign of letting up soon.

“Run for it?” he suggested, and she nodded. 

Before starting out he turned to her, gentle hands loosening the shawl draped around her shoulders and raising it to carefully cover her hair.  She held the shawl closed beneath her chin. 

“Alright,  _stará baba_ ,” he chuckled, “ready?”  In lieu of an answer she raced past him into the rain, his laughter ringing over their splashing footsteps as he followed.

* * *

She woke panting, hair plastered to her forehead, nightdress clinging to the small of her back.  In the kitchen she patted water on her cheeks and the nape of her neck, trying to forget the dream.

His lips had explored her neck, the hollow of her throat; his hands had tangled in her hair, tugging and teasing.  Had it been real life she would have been mortified at the noises she’d made—how she’d gasped, the way she’d all but moaned his name, arching against him, as he’d grinned against her skin. 

Now, awake and alone, the heat smoldered on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stará baba = old lady
> 
> JACK: I told Sarah it ain’t fair that girls only drag fellas along when they need somethin’ carried, but then she pointed out that if we’re gonna eat most o’ the groceries, we better carry most o’ ‘em, too.
> 
> I guess she’s got a point.


	42. Newspaper (5 September 1904)

Matej smoothed the pages of the newspaper on the table in front of him.  He was meant to be watching the children, but the boy had brought them a copy of the previous day’s  _Slovák v Amerike_ , and Matej was eager to read it.  Sometimes he was able to pick up the day’s edition, but not always; it had been thoughtful of Roman to supply them with one this evening.  At least, Matej primarily regarded it as thoughtfulness.  He didn’t discount that there might have been a bit of calculation to the act.  The boy was smart enough to know that showing a little consideration toward his sweetheart’s parents now and then would not go amiss.

He glanced up from the newspaper to the pair on the settee.  Hanka had her legs tucked up to one side and was leaning into Roman ever so slightly.  There was, he decided, nothing wrong with that.  Vierka might disagree, and Hanka’s grandparents would certainly disagree; but none of them were there to protest, the latter thousands of kilometers away and the former downstairs visiting a neighbor.  But—as vulgar as it seemed to notice such a thing, as suspicious and small he felt in looking for it, it also seemed his paternal duty—their hands were all visible, holding the book open between their two laps.  So while Mama might cluck, she could have no real complaint.

It was fear, not animosity, that made her sharp and cold.  At first she had been happy to cook for Hanka’s friends, especially a Bohemian boy and the brother he’d found, and heaven knew they’d needed a good meal in a real home.  Ever since that first night Roman’s eyes had followed Hanka, torn away only by necessity, drawn back at her every word; and yet for a few weeks afterward they had tried to pretend that they were still merely friends, though Hanka blushed every time her mother asked about him, and his appearances in their lives grew frequent.  Though Vierka seemed happy to tolerate him as her daughter’s friend, or as an unfortunate case in need of charity and a civilizing influence, she was less inclined to accept Roman as anything more.  Of course they wanted their only daughter to be happy, she said; but they also wanted the best for her.  To Vierka that meant a young man of good reputation and a good family, a young man who’d provide well for Hanka, a young man who was stable and steady.  There was too much they didn’t know about Roman, and that frightened her.  Matej understood: she’d already left behind so much that was familiar and comfortable; now she craved a little foreknowledge of what was to come, a little control in shaping it.  And here was this New York boy, taking it all away.  

Jozef had married his Zuzana a few years after the rest of them had arrived in America.  If they had scrimped, saved a bit more scrupulously, they might have had just enough for one ticket to Pittsburgh.  Vierka wouldn’t hear of making the journey alone, though, and he didn’t feel right leaving her and Hanka while he went, didn’t trust the city not to devour them in his absence.  So Jozef had been married without his family, to a bride they’d yet to meet.  In his letters he sounded happy; he wrote of his students, and his friends, immigrant and American alike, and his wife and their baby.  He had a life far from them, apart from them; they rejoiced that it was a good one, even as they mourned the separation.  They had long expected that Joži, so clever and determined, would leave for somewhere greater, someplace with more ideas, more freedom of expression and thought.  In hindsight they shouldn’t have been surprised that that place was in America.  But Hanka was their baby, their good girl, their dutiful daughter.  Maybe they’d thought they’d have her longer; maybe they’d assumed they’d have more say in her future.  Instead she was on a path of her own choosing, one that none of them could see the end of. 

Now the boy sat in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his hair pushed back into place when he’d taken off his cap.  He looked neat and clean enough that Vierka could find no fault in his appearance, and he seemed strong and healthy.  He was reading aloud from the book they shared, Hanka’s eyes following along in the text; every so often she would interrupt with a question that he answered sometimes smiling, sometimes rubbing his chin in thought.  And when he looked at her his expression was filled with such tenderness and hope that Matej focused his attention on the newspaper, knowing such private emotions were not meant for him to see. 

It was not the expression of a man who was only interested in bedding the girl.  If he hadn’t believed that already, he knew it now; and if his wife still denied it, he would convince her. 

A few articles later there was a stirring on the settee.  “Guess I should go,” Roman said reluctantly, and Hanka made a plaintive noise that her father had never heard from her before.  Roman laid aside the book and stood, holding her hand until she untangled her feet from her skirt; they walked to the door with hands clasped.

“Good night, Mr. Kollár,” he called.

Matej looked up.  “Good night, Roman.  And thank you,” he added, indicating the paper.

“Sure.”  He smiled politely, nodding, before he turned his gaze downward, where his smile grew far more genuine as his eyes met Hanka’s.

With a pronounced rustle of newsprint Matej raised the paper in front of his eyes.  There was a chuckle from the doorway, and then all was quiet for a moment.  He read on, willing his ears not to hear anything; but try as he might it was impossible to miss the words they exchanged, the conviction in Hanka’s declaration, the contentment in Roman’s answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slovák v Amerike = “Slovak in America,” a Slovak-language newspaper published since 1889
> 
> Vierka is a diminutive of Viera, as Hanka is of Hana and Joži of Jozef. For completeness’ sake, Maťo works for Matej. Hana doesn’t love being called Hanka, but dads will be dads.
> 
> If I’ve figured it right it would have cost around $14.80 (though possibly more) for a round trip between New York and Pittsburgh. That’s about $432.82 in 2016 dollars. Around 1900 nearly a third of working women over 16 made between $5 and $7 a week; so the ticket would likely have cost two weeks’ pay for either Hana or her mother.
> 
> JACK: Hana’s pop oughtta talk to Mr. Jacobs. He’s prob'ly got some advice for when your daughter falls in love with a hooligan.


	43. Snoddy (7 September 1904)

“I want some information,” she said.

Her would-be informants shared a look before turning back to her. “It’ll cost ya,” the dirtier one said, his eyes narrowed.

She’d been prepared for that, and nodded. “How much?”

“A penny’s worth of candy each,” answered the second.

The other boy slugged his arm. “We coulda got more than that, dummy.”

“Yeah, but it’s Hana,” he said, rubbing the spot where he’d been punched. “We can’t gouge her.”

She did not want to be gouged, and nodded before Tumbler could respond. “That is fair. A penny’s worth each when you deliver the information—” She raised a finger, and the stakes. “— _and_  a penny’s worth now for you to share.”

Les grinned. “Yeah? Thanks!”

But Tumbler hadn’t lost his shrewd expression. “Hold on a minute,” he said, folding his arms across his stomach. “I’m thinkin’ we should hear what the information is first before we go making any deals.” No one could fault that logic.

“Right.” Les nodded, his earlier grin erased. “What do you wanna know?”

“About Snoddy. Everything you can find out.”

“What do ya wanna know about him for?”

“I just do.” She hoped it sounded mysterious. “We can meet again in…two days?”

Again the boys glanced at each other; Les shrugged, and Tumbler turned back to her with a nod. “Sure.”

“I have to go. Here.” She handed a penny to Les, ignoring Tumbler’s cry of protest. “See you later.” As she left they were stumbling and squabbling in the direction of a shop, and she was happy to leave the equal division of candy for them to decide.

* * *

Two afternoons later they reconvened. His air serious, Les pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it before handing it to her. On its lines was a list written in cursive; she assumed that meant he’d written it, as she couldn’t imagine Tumbler having learned it. She felt them watching her as she quickly scanned the list.

 _Ranger_  
_vampire_  
 _rich_  
 _has freckles_  
 _goes to church sometimes_  
 _reffined_  
 _tall_  
 _~~looks like Jack?~~_  
 _striker_  
 _went out with Sarah_

A line extended from the first item to a drawing of a lumpy creature to one side. It had to be a dog, she reckoned, squinting at it; its tongue was lolling out, and its tail was wrong for it to be a horse. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but a dog wasn’t it.

Still squinting, she looked up at the boys. “He is not a vampire,” she said firmly.

“Sure he is!” Les was quick to defend their investigative work.

“How do you know—I mean, why do you think he is?”

“He’s got pointy teeth.” Tumbler curled his lip and pointed to one of his canines. “And he’s kinda pale.”

“But with freckles. Jack says freckles are real Irish, but Snoddy’s not, so I don’t know where he got ’em from.” She didn’t remember Jack having freckles, for that matter. But not-Irish meant that Snoddy was probably safe to dance with, which would please Pauline.

“He can’t be a vampire. Look,” she said, turning the page around to them and pointing to an item further down the list. “Vampires can’t go in church. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh.”

“Well, maybe that’s why he doesn’t go all the time,” Tumbler suggested.

Les peered up at her, brows knit. “What about synagogues? Can vampires go in there?”

Before she could answer—not that she had the first idea how to approach that particular theological conundrum—Tumbler jumped in. “What’s the matter, Jacobs, ya scared of vampires?” Further discussion on the issue was forestalled by Les shoving the crowing Tumbler, who recovered by bouncing off of a streetlamp to leap at his friend. Their tussle was short-lived, and when they settled down Hana moved on to the next item.

“If he is rich, why does he sell newspapers?” Though of course “rich” could mean a lot of things to a newsboy; the two standing in front of her probably had two different definitions of the word.

“He’s just good at savin’,” Tumbler explained, straightening his hat. So it was unlikely that he was secretly heir to a fortune, like in a Horatio Alger novel. Though the notion had been a long shot, it was still a bit disappointing for it to be disproved.

The final items looked like the boys had started running out of things to report, but had wanted to bulk up their list. Apparently there had been some disagreement about whether or not he looked like Jack, judging by the question mark and the line through it; at least it gave her an inkling what Snoddy might look like. It made sense that he’d taken part in the strike, and she’d already known that he’d seen Sarah, though unsuccessfully. For a moment she wished Sarah were still here; she would have a better insight into Snoddy than her investigators had displayed.

Because of course they hadn’t answered the most important questions. “Does he have a girl?”

“Why’s that important?” Tumbler asked suspiciously. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

She ignored him and went on. “What is his real name?”

“That’ll cost extra” was the prompt reply. She took it to mean that they hadn’t thought to find out. “Anythin’ else?”

She took one more look at the list. “No. I can keep this?” They nodded. “Then I suppose it’s time for your payment.” Both boys grinned, and soon they were standing in front of a counter, sweets in dozens of colors and shapes arrayed before them. Before they left, Hana was not two but three pennies poorer, and sucking on a butterscotch candy.

* * *

Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with a nonchalant way to ascertain what Pauline might think of a freckled not-likely-a-vampire.

When Hana asked what she found attractive in a man, she answered primly, “Outward appearance is far less important than character.” She said this kind of thing sometimes, repeated these platitudes as if her virtue were being tested. Hana simply leveled her with a look and waited.

Sure enough, after a few seconds she abandoned her crocheting and scooted closer to Hana, lowering her voice even though they were alone in the Hermanns’ apartment. “Not too tall,” she confided, “because I imagine that makes it rather hard to kiss comfortably.” She sent Hana a searching look.

“How long do you plan on kissing?” Pauline blushed, raising a hand to hide her eyes as Hana laughed. “You can always stand on a step,” she suggested. Pauline nodded studiously, as if filing the advice away for future use.

“He should be strong, but slender,” she went on, her face growing dreamy, “with gentle hands. And he should have dark golden hair, and expressive eyes, and a generous mouth.”

Needless to say, none of those things had been on Les and Tumbler’s list. “He sounds like a hero in a book.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“But could you love a man who wasn’t so blond and handsome like that?”

“Oh, of course he needn’t look exactly like that!” Pauline waved a hand. “That’s just how I imagine him. Usually.” Her blush hadn’t faded, and she looked very pretty with her eyes sparkling and her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder.

“What about his character? Since that is more important than appearance anyway.” Hana smirked.

She gave an unamused little  _hmph_  at that. “I would like him to be responsible and reliable—if we make plans, he ought to keep them. But,” she continued, her expression softening, “it would be nice if he were romantic, too. Thoughtful, at the very least. The way Roman is with you. He pays attention to what you say and remembers things about you. He’s awfully sweet.” Her eyes were wide and soft, her tone earnest as she asked, “Is he everything you ever wished for?”

It would crush all of Pauline’s romantic dreams to hear that she’d never dwelt much on the subject. If she had, she doubted she would have imagined anything like a streetwise orphan who’d supported himself by—how did they say?— _improving the truth_  about the headlines; and described that way, it was a wonder she liked him at all, let alone loved him. Now she wouldn’t want anything different. Whatever their future held, Roman had ruined her.

“No,” she murmured, with a small shake of her head, “he is better.”

Pauline fairly swooned, collapsing back on the settee with one hand thrown against her brow. Though the reaction was at least half in jest, Hana still colored, embarrassed to have revealed so much. She cleared her throat and tried to steer the conversation away from her fellow and back to Pauline’s ideal one.

“So, he should be reliable and thoughtful. What else?”

“Well…of course he should be honest, and kind.” There was a flash in her eyes like sunlight on the river when she smiled. “And he ought to be noble and chivalrous, like King Arthur.”

“Like the flour?”

Pauline laughed. “No! Arthur was a king in England long ago. He was raised as a commoner, though he was really a king’s son, and took the crown when he pulled a sword from a stone. Then he married Guinevere, and while he was ruling his knights went on all sorts of adventures.” As she’d explained excitement had drawn her nearly upright again; now she rose the rest of the way and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a book. In gilt on its cover was the title [ _The Boy’s King Arthur_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2F236x%2F99%2F7d%2F23%2F997d2369f9f6b52862c89e3fecd78238--the-boy-king-king-arthur.jpg&t=MTQzNzM1ZjFjNTVlNmRiYjIyZjJhMjcyMGQ5MWM3N2E2OGZiMWFjYSx6cmFXTWFZcA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165100050260%2Fahoj-hana-i-told-snoddy-about-pauline-and-he&m=1)—“As if girls aren’t just as interested in these stories,” Pauline groused under her breath, sitting again. Together they looked through the book, Pauline summarizing the bold exploits of Launcelot, Tristram, Galahad, and the rest.

Knights usually rode horses, but maybe a dog named Ranger was a good start. 

* * *

“Here.” For the second time in a week a folded piece of paper was thrust at her. Tumbler had been waiting when the trolley stopped; even without knowing what it was she murmured thanks, stepping out of the flow of traffic. He slumped against the wall next to her as with a furrowed brow she opened the note; the handwriting was unfamiliar, but at the greeting her heart skipped.

 _Ahoj Hana,_  
_I told Snoddy about Pauline, and he wants to know if the two o’ you wanna go to dinner on Saturday night. I told him you’d ask her, and then I can introduce him to both o’ you, ’cause he says that’s the right way to do stuff. I think he’s makin’ it complicated, but I do wanna take you to dinner. How about seven o’clock?_  
_S láskou,_  
_Roman_

She couldn’t help but giggle, elated at the thought of going to dinner with him and at the love he sent. Tumbler rolled his eyes. “They will stick that way,” she told him, smiling widely.

“Good. Then I won’t have to see any o’ this.” He gestured toward her and the note, sounding disgusted.

“Tell him I will ask—” She cut herself off. If Tumbler hadn’t read the note, he might not know he’d been part of a conspiracy to introduce the object of his affection to another man. A horrible heaviness sunk in her stomach.

“Tumbler,” she said slowly, “do you know what this is about?”

He rolled his eyes again, but good-naturedly this time. “First you were askin’ about Snoddy, then Skitts came around Duane Street to talk to him…it don’t take a genius to put two an’ two together. I know you’re lookin’ to introduce him to Miss Pauline.”

“You are not sad?”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “Though I can’t say I’d mind seein’ Snoddy get stabbed with a hatpin.” When her look of concern didn’t budge he sighed in a manner that, while longsuffering, was not, she thought, heartbroken. “It’s  _fine_. I’m not a sap, like some people. Now, ya gonna answer that note or what?”

He offered a scrap of newsprint and she dug a short length of pencil out of her bag. It was no easy feat to compose a legible message against a brick wall, but she managed.

 _Najdrahší Roman,_  
_I will ask Pauline if she can go, but I think that she will say yes. I hope they will like each other._  
_Mám ťa veľmi rada._  
_Hana_

Tumbler tucked the note away as she stifled a giggle, imagining Roman’s blush when he read it. “Would you like to come over?” she asked.

He shook his head. “After I drop this off, I’m goin’ to eat with the Jacobses.” He glanced up at the sky; it was growing dark earlier and earlier, though there was still plenty of light. “Want me to walk ya home?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Sure. See ya.” With a smile he turned and slipped through the crowd.

It was only when she’d knocked at the Hermanns’ door that she realized that she was about to ask Pauline to dinner with a boy called  _Snoddy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S láskou = with love 
> 
> The Boy’s King Arthur, based on Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, was edited by Sidney Lanier to be more suitable for young audiences. It was first published in 1880.
> 
> Najdrahší = dearest (and also “most expensive”)
> 
> Mám ťa veľmi rada = I (a female) like you a lot.
> 
> JACK: Personally, I think Spot’s birds got nothin’ on Tumbler an’ Les. Just look at that list an’ tell me what more ya need to know?!


	44. Double Date (15 September 1904)

Perched on the settee with her hands clasped demurely in her lap, Pauline appeared utterly serene.  If she hadn’t been wearing a new dress—the color of violets, it turned her eyes sapphire—and if those eyes hadn’t been moving between the clock and the door with unusual keenness, her demeanor would have seemed perfectly composed and calm.

That, and the fact that they’d arranged to meet in the Kollárs’ apartment, rather than the Hermanns’.  “I’d rather he not meet my parents right away.  That could scare anyone off,” she’d half-joked.  So Mr. and Mrs. Hermann were told that Pauline was going to dinner with Hana and Roman, which was entirely true, if omitting an important detail.

When the knock came she started up from her seat, automatically smoothing her skirt.  Mama answered the door, standing aside to admit Roman and Snoddy.

“Come again?” Pauline had asked, eyebrows raised, when she’d heard the nickname.  Yet she’d agreed all the same, even though Hana had merely said that he was a friend of Roman’s.  A night out would do her good, Hana knew; hopefully making a new acquaintance would ease some of her heartache.

“ _Dobrý večer_ ,” Roman said now as he stepped in.  While he introduced his friend to her parents she took the opportunity to get a good look at the newcomer.

He was as freckled as advertised, and his dark hair had a reddish cast in the light.  Though she probably wouldn’t mistake one for the other, she could see some resemblance between him and Jack in the shape of the face, the plane of the cheekbones.  But he was dressed more fashionably than either Jack or Roman, wearing a three-piece suit that fit him well.  Her first impression was of respectability; and looking at her parents it was obvious that they had no qualms about him.

Next it was her turn.  “Hana,” Roman said, his hand alighting between her shoulder blades, “this’s my pal Calvin Angier.”  The name seemed to amuse Roman, though she couldn’t imagine he thought it was any worse than his friend’s nickname.  Then he was introducing her as “My sweetheart, Hana Kollár,” and she felt a thrill at the title.  They shook hands cordially, exchanging pleasantries before Pauline stepped forward. 

“An’ finally, Pauline, may I introduce to ya Mr. Calvin Angier.  Calvin, Miss Pauline Hermann.”

Hana watched carefully as the two shook hands.  Her face was hard to read—maybe she’d been looking through that etiquette book again—but nothing in Pauline’s demeanor suggested disappointment or displeasure, and Calvin’s smile seemed genuinely interested.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hermann.”

“And you, Mr. Angier.”

“Shall we?”  They said goodbye to Mama and Tatko and filed into the hall and down the stairs, with Roman leading the way and Calvin bringing up the rear.

At the front door Roman paused, and when she joined him he tipped her chin up to give her a quick kiss.  “Hey,  _miláčku_ ,” he said quietly.  She slipped her hand into his, smiling as he twined their fingers together.  

“You look nice.”  He was wearing a new shirt, crisp and a bit stiff about the collar.  She had a flash of apprehension, wondering how expensive this evening would end up being for him; a shirt was one thing, as he’d certainly get good use out of it, but a dinner could only be eaten once.  And knowing him, he would be too openhanded out of some combination of pride and a desire to provide for her, when the last thing she wanted was for him to sacrifice his hard-earned wages on her behalf…  

“So do you,” he murmured, eyeing her up and down.  All thoughts of finances fled as their eyes locked, and she licked her lips.  His grip on her hand tightened; his mouth twitched into a slow smoldering smirk; she found herself leaning toward him.

“Yes, Roman, is that a new shirt?” Pauline asked, gliding down the last few steps.

“Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes from Hana as she backed away.  “I didn’t know it was gonna be so interestin’.”  He opened the door then and held it while the others passed through.  On the sidewalk Hana took his arm, while Calvin offered his to Pauline.  She took it, though the distance between them dwarfed the one between Hana and Roman.  As Calvin led the way they followed, the better to keep an eye on the interaction between the pair in front of them.

“Skittery says you work in a dress shop?” he began.

“That’s right.  You might have seen it—C.M. James?”

“What, the one right behind the statue of old man Greeley?” Roman demanded, surging forward a step closer, and she nodded over her shoulder.  “Did ya work there durin’ the strike?”

Pauline shook her head, ducking it slightly as she did.  “No, I was still in school then.  I’m sure it was more exciting than studying.”

“It’s too bad ya missed it.  Ya woulda had a perfect view o’ the action.”

As Roman subsided again, Calvin took up a new thread.  “Did ya like school?”

“Oh, yes!  Well, mostly, I mean; it wouldn’t be honest to say that I loved every moment of it.  And I must confess that I was very poor at Latin.  I haven’t nearly the skill with languages that Hana and Roman have.”  She looked back at them again, enough that Hana could see her beaming proudly at them.  Then she turned back to Calvin.  “I think it would have been nice to go a little longer.  But I’m very happy at the shop, so I certainly can’t complain.”  She lifted a wide smile up to him, one that he returned.  Hana studied his expression as best she could; there was no calculation in his face, no hint of untoward expectation as they chatted about their favorite subjects at school—a perfectly appropriate conversation.  All in all, they seemed to be getting along just fine.

Satisfied, she slowed their steps and leaned close to Roman.  “Did you like going to school?”

“It was alright.”  He shrugged.  “I liked readin’, but I wanted to read what I wanted, y’know?  Not what they told me to.”  That was all too believable.  For a moment she was lost in imagining a younger Roman, with plump cheeks and wide eyes and a head full of stories.  “What about you?” he asked.  “Did ya go to school any here?”

She shook her head.  “I didn’t know enough English at first, and then it was more important for me to work.  But I was not clever even at school in Revúca.”

“Bein’ smart ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Maybe you didn’t go to school long, but you’re still worth ten o’ most guys with college degrees.”

It had never bothered her knowing that Jozef was the intelligent one, that no one expected much from her mind.  She knew enough to enjoy her novels, and, far more importantly, enough to make sure she wasn’t overcharged or shortchanged with the shopping.  Despite what Pauline believed, Hana didn’t think that knowing two languages was any great feat, especially not when she didn’t consider herself proficient in one of them.  But Roman was so clever; maybe he wanted someone more his intellectual equal.  “You don’t mind that I am not so smart?  That we can’t talk about books and things?”

“We were talkin’ about books the other night,” he reminded her, “an’ it was great.  If I was so worried about how smart my sweetheart was, I’d have Dave on my arm instead o’ you.”  He paused to consider that possibility, frowning, before he shook his head decisively and went on.  “Dave’s fine an’ all, but he’s nowhere near as patient an’ understandin’ an’ sweet as you are.  An’ thank God ya are.”

By way of answer she leaned her head against his arm.

Before long they reached the restaurant.   _R.S. Thwaite_  stretched across its one narrow window,  _Meals & Teas_ below.  As it was neither Tibby’s nor Mrs. Procházka’s, the restaurant was entirely new to Hana, but Calvin nodded cordially to one of the waiters as they entered.  They were ushered to a table near the front, where Calvin pulled out the chair for Pauline to sit.

“I feel like I oughta practiced this, too, not just all those fancy introductions,” Roman said as he followed suit, dragging Hana’s chair back.

“Ya mean Tibby doesn’t teach all his waiters this stuff?”  Calvin feigned shock.

“You should take notes here,” said Pauline, who’d never been to Tibby’s, as she looked around; “and then you can suggest improvements to your boss.”

“White tablecloths,” Hana said, running a hand over the fabric before them; its slightly faded pattern would hide stains better than pure white would.  “And a crystal chandelier instead of the fan.”  Like Tibby’s, this place lacked the former and had the latter.

“Bumlets would be heartbroken if anythin’ happened to that fan.”

“ _I’d_  be heartbroken if anythin’ happened to that fan,” Roman grumbled, settling in his seat.

As a waiter hurried to the kitchen Pauline ventured, “All of the waiters speaking French, wearing little mustaches.”  Hana giggled at the thought; she wouldn’t mind hearing him speak French, but picturing Roman with a thin mustache only made her laugh more.  He shot her a doleful look.

“That’d go over great.  The tablecloths’d be black by suppertime, somebody’d steal the crystals out o’ the chandelier—”  Calvin coughed what sounded like “Swifty,” at which Roman grinned sardonically.  “—an’ I’d be out on my ear.”

“We can’t have that,” Pauline said.  “This place is charming.  How did you find it?”

“My parents knew the old Mr. Thwaite, a long time ago.”  Calvin looked around, taking in the framed prints of dogs and horses hung on the walls and the dented teapot left on another table.  “It reminds me of home.”

Much remained unsaid there, and further inquiry was forestalled by a waiter distributing menus.  The decor had suggested it, but the menu made it clear that this was a step up from their familiar knockwurst-and-sauerkraut establishment.  When he looked over the prices Roman’s eyes widened just for a second, and she couldn’t blame him; 15 cents for a cup of chicken soup, and another five for a roll?  She made up her mind to split the cost with him later, whether he liked it or not.  

Besides that, the foods listed were simply things she’d never eaten before: beef steak pie and combination salad and mock turtle soup.  Both Pauline and Calvin seemed comfortable as they perused their menus and ordered; Hana chose the beef steak pie out of curiosity, and Roman got something called Yorkshire buck.

The four talked about this and that, the weather and their work.  Calvin preened when Pauline complimented his suit, which led to a discussion of fashion.  His cheeks flushed, he admitted to fond memories of looking at the plates in his mother’s old copies of  _Godey’s Lady’s Book_ ; judging by Pauline’s smile, she found the confession endearing.  

Despite his earlier protestations, Roman watched carefully as the waiter handed out their dishes.  Eating quieted their talk for a while; Roman offered her a forkful of his dinner, an open-faced sandwich of melted cheese with bacon and fried egg, before spearing a bite of her pie.  With their hunger abated, conversation picked up again with discussion of their plans for the next day.  When Hana mentioned going to Mass Pauline mused, “I’ve often wondered how the Catholic service is different from ours.  Do you think I could go with you sometime?”

“Of course,” she said, pleased, “whenever you want.  It is all in Slovak, but I will translate.”

Calvin swallowed and asked Pauline, “Where do you usually attend, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“The German Lutheran church on East 6th Street, St. Mark.  At least, we used to…”  She broke off and looked away, blinking quickly.

He frowned for a moment, puzzled, like he was trying to place the name.  A beat later his eyes first widened and then flooded with sadness.  “Oh, no.  The  _General Slocum_.”

Everyone in New York had heard of the  _General Slocum_  disaster, though not everyone had lost so many acquaintances.  Back in June the ship had caught fire and sunk on its way to Long Island as it ferried over 1300 passengers to a summer picnic.  It had, Tumbler had exulted, been such a great story that it hadn’t needed improvement: a fire had started, the captain refused to turn back, life vests proved faulty, passengers were battered by the ships paddlewheel or weighed down by their clothes.  Over a thousand of those aboard died.  She hated to think that Tumbler was capable of being so callous about others’ misfortune, and hadn’t told him that Pauline had nearly been on board that day.  

On June 15, the day it went down, the  _General Slocum_  had been chartered by the Ladies’ Aid Society of the German Evangelical Lutheran Church of St. Mark.  Hana remembered how annoyed Pauline had been at having to work that day—it was a Wednesday—and then at whoever had scheduled the outing for midweek.  “Honestly, it’s like they don’t want me to go and have fun!” she’d pouted.  Her mother, who suffered from violent seasickness, had had no desire to go, and was less than sympathetic to her daughter’s feelings.  The sinking had been a shock to the whole city, but the Hermanns had taken it harder than anyone else Hana knew, and little wonder, since so many of the women and children they were accustomed to seeing every week were suddenly gone. 

Now tears welled up in Pauline’s eyes.  Instinctively Hana reached for Roman’s hand and found it open and waiting for her.  “Please forgive me,” Pauline said, voice trembling.  “I’m not usually this emotional.”

“No, no, don’t worry.  I’m sorry for bringin’ it up.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she sniffed.

“Still, I’m sorry.”  He handed her a neatly folded handkerchief, touching her arm gently and briefly.  She gave a wobbly smile and dabbed at her eyes, taking a moment to compose herself, drawing in a few deep breaths.  When she looked up again she seemed steadier, if a bit pale. 

She smoothed the handkerchief carefully.  “I’ll wash this and get it back to you.”

“Hey, if he goes back to Duane Street without it, the fellas’ll know that somethin’ happened.  An’ then you’ll have to tell ’em that ya made a lady cry,” Roman teased.

“I think I’d rather be stabbed with a hatpin.”  He winked at Pauline, who blushed and hid her face in the handkerchief again, shaking her head.  “Tumbler loves tellin’ that story.”  Hana thought it best not to point out that Tumbler might like to have a similar tale to tell about Calvin.

“You would too if ya’d been there, Snod,” Roman said, shaking his head.  “He never saw it comin’.”

“He doesn’t mind too terribly, does he?” Pauline asked.  “I hope not.  I wasn’t really angry, just trying to prove a point—no pun intended.”

Roman dismissed Blink’s discomfort with a wave.  “He’s gotten way worse before.”

“An’ he shoulda known better than to treat a young lady like that,” Calvin added.

“Kid know better?  He don’t know anythin’ when it comes to girls.”

“I can take care of myself,” she reminded them; then, with a puckish smile in Calvin’s direction, she offered, “I’ll give you a demonstration if you like.”

He laughed.  “I believe you.  An’ I’ll try not to do anythin’ that I’d deserve to be stabbed for.”

“See that you don’t,” she said archly.

Then he leaned closer and added in a murmur, “Not on the first date, at least.”  Pauline blushed again, but met his eyes steadily.

“Who’s to say that this won’t be the last?” she challenged.

At that Calvin dipped his head deferentially.  “You, of course, Miss Hermann.”

The answer, mild and sincere, seemed to take her aback; she looked at him with head tilted, her expression thoughtful.  After a moment’s pause she said, “I think you might call me Pauline, if you like.”

A smile spread across his face.  “Only if you’ll call me Calvin.”

They made their way home at a more leisurely pace than they’d come at, reveling in the cool evening air.  This time Hana noted that Pauline and Calvin were walking closer than they had before.  She smiled and pressed into Roman’s side.

To keep up the charade that Pauline had only gone out with Hana and Roman, Calvin couldn’t walk her to her door.  Even walking her to the Kollárs’ door would be tempting fate.  It was plain that he didn’t like not seeing her all the way home, but he gave in to her insistence that they say goodnight on the landing.  Roman shot him an exaggerated wink as he and Hana passed on their way to her apartment; Calvin rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry about him,” he said.  “He can be rather uncouth.”

She smiled.  “He’s a little rough around the edges, but he means well.  And he treats Hana splendidly.  That’s good enough for me.”

“She seems good for him.”  He looked into the hallway, toward the direction his friend had gone, and she studied his profile.  If nothing else, she was intrigued by the details he’d hinted at: about his mother, his home, his education.  He’d impressed her with his manners, and with his flirtations.  Though it would mean craning her neck to look at him, she slid a covert step closer.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, though I must apologize; I wasn’t at my best.  But I enjoyed the evening, truly.”

“I’m glad.  And you’ve got nothin’ at all to apologize for.  No one thinks less of you for havin’ feelings, especially not about somethin’ like this.”  She breathed in shakily at the reminder, kept her gaze trained on the buttons on his vest so the sympathy on his face would not overwhelm her.  Then, his tone lighter, he added, “Besides, if that wasn’t you at your best, I’ve got somethin’ to look forward to.”

She blushed.  “You won’t have to wait long if you don’t want.  My birthday is next weekend, and Hana is organizing a picnic on Sunday afternoon.  Roman and Andy will be there, and a few friends from the shop.”  She met his eyes, smiling shyly.  “I’d like it if you came too.”

“It would be my honor,” he answered.

Hana had wanted to ask Roman if he thought Calvin liked Pauline, but there was no assurance that they wouldn’t be overheard by either friends or neighbors.  Instead they loitered outside the apartment until the others had said their goodbyes, enjoying their own moment of privacy in the meantime.

Calvin’s behavior must have rubbed off on Roman, for he bent at the waist and kissed her hand.  “ _Dobrou noc, Slečna Kollárová_ ,” he said as he straightened, keeping hold of her hand.  That was probably too familiar for a properly formal farewell, but she didn’t mind.

“ _Dobrú noc, Pan Kučera.  Ďakujem veľmi za pekny večer_.”

“ _Uvidíme se ještě_?”  

A lady should not let on how much she admired a suitor, she remembered from [Pauline’s book](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/161147650585/hana-arrived-at-the-building-to-find-pauline); so she shrugged as if she didn’t care one way or another whether they saw each other again.  “ _Môže byť_.”

“ _Ale musíme_.”

“ _A prečo musíme?_ ”

“ _Protože máte moje srdce_ ,” he explained, his voice low but clear, “ _a bez toho nemůžu žít_.”

She could not keep up the charade any longer, not when there was no pretense in his words.  Every time she thought she couldn’t love him more, thought her heart was already full to overflowing, he said something like this.   _You have my heart, and without it I cannot live_ , he’d said, but he had hers just as securely, just as surely.  She laid her hand along his jaw, stroked his cheek with her thumb; then she raised herself on tiptoes and kissed his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

He returned the kiss chastely before drawing back.  “Awful forward, aren’t ya?” he teased, eyes dancing.

He was impossible, and irresistible, and she was lost to him completely.  “ _Milujem ťa_.”

“You say that on all your first dates?”  But he didn’t give her the chance to answer, instead kissing her smiling lips.

A throat clearing behind them parted them.  Pauline neared, while Calvin stuck his head around the corner.  Hana called a quiet good night to him, waving, as Roman said something that made Pauline roll her eyes; then, after one last squeeze, Roman dropped her hand and joined his friend.  His “C’mon, Cal” carried up the stairs, but Calvin’s reply was lost. 

When their footsteps faded she turned to Pauline.  Trying to sound neither too eager nor too curious Hana asked, “What do you think?”

She stared off into the distance.  “He’s tall,” she said finally, and while she wore a disappointed moue her eyes were sparkling.

“Is he worth standing on a step for?”

Pauline laughed quietly.  “Maybe,” she admitted.  “I’m not sure yet.  But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobrý večer = Good evening 
> 
> miláčku = sweetheart, darling
> 
> Dobrou noc, Slečna Kollárová. = Good night, Miss Kollárová.
> 
> Dobrú noc, Pan Kučera. Ďakujem veľmi za pekny večer. = Good night, Mr. Kučera. Thank you very much for the nice evening.
> 
> Uvidíme se ještě? = Will we see each other again?
> 
> Môže byť. = Maybe.
> 
> Ale musíme. = But we must.
> 
> A prečo musíme? = And why must we?
> 
> Protože máte moje srdce, a bez toho nemůžu žít. = Because you (formal) have my heart, and without it I cannot live.
> 
> Milujem ťa = I love you
> 
> Part of the problem with researching lower classes is that so much of the information that exists about daily life throughout most of history addresses what the upper classes ate and wore and bought. It’s far harder to find out what peasants wore, because their clothes were largely utilitarian and worn until they were rags, and what working class kids ate, because they weren’t dining out much. So what we have to go on doesn’t necessarily answer questions about the people we’re most interested in. That’s why historians of the future will thank you for writing things down and keeping ephemera.
> 
> New York Public Library’s “What’s On the Menu?” collection of menus is a great resource. It includes menus from the 1850s through the present, and users can search by year, and even by dish. The menu I decided was most analogous to the group’s price range was a lunch menu from Siegel Cooper Co., a Chicago-based department store whose New York location opened in 1896. 
> 
> R.S. Thwaite Meals & Teas is made up, alas. Hana’s beef steak pie is from the menu at Siegel Cooper, and Roman’s Yorkshire buck (a variation on Welsh rabbit/rarebit) was on several menus in the NYPL collection, though mostly dating from the 1910s. I couldn’t resist the name, though, and since the Thwaites are an English family, it seemed fitting.
> 
> A bowl of soup that cost 15 cents in 1905 would run you $4.06 in 2016.
> 
> Godey’s Lady’s Book was a fancy magazine published for much of the 19th century. It was known for its hand-tinted fashion plates. 
> 
> The Hermanns are of German descent (except for one Swede, Pauline’s maternal grandfather) and are Lutheran. When I was searching for German Lutheran churches in NYC, it appeared likely that the family would have gone to the German Evangelical Lutheran Church of St. Mark in the East Village. 
> 
> The General Slocum disaster occurred as recounted in the story. One of its effects was the exodus of German-Americans from the Lower East Side, particularly to Yorkville on the Upper East Side. In terms of its impact on our characters, it’s the main reason why Pauline isn’t having a bigger party for her 18th birthday–because she has far fewer people to celebrate with than she had before.
> 
> JACK: HANA AND SKITTS’LL HAVE THE WHOLE CITY MARRIED OFF BEFORE TOO LONG!!!!
> 
> (also, no one can make fun o’ my name bein’ Francis when Snoddy’s real name is CALVIN!)


	45. Hate (19 September 1904)

“I hate this,” he whispered. 

His hands were on her, stroking the small of her back, gripping her waist.  She scraped her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and his eyes, already half-lidded in the weak light, fluttered shut.  His lips brushed hers, teasing, tempting, until she tilted her head and refused to let him move away.  The kiss was unhurried, a welcome respite from too-hasty embraces, from stolen moments; it held the lingering heat of a late summer evening, vanilla-sweet, clinging, moist.  The hand on her waist slid higher, the thumb skating over ribs, and though she was not normally ticklish she made a sound that was half laugh, half gasp.

His eyelashes brushed her cheek; he murmured into her ear.  “I hate not bein’ able to kiss ya whenever I want, an’ not bein’ able to hold ya.”  She did, too: hated that they had to hide in alleys and stairwells and dark corners just to be alone, hated that tongues would wag if they were found like this, upright and fully clothed but too close, too willing.  Hated the names they would be called, the smirks and stares and censure that waited.  Hated the hot coil of desire in her belly, the flush of pride when his eyes went dark on seeing her; hated herself for being so eager, so selfish, so impatient; hated every reason why she could not have him. 

She kissed a spot below his jaw, pressed her lips to the pulse thudding in his neck, clutched his shoulders.  His head lolled back, rolling languidly, allowing her access to his throat from collarbone to chin; he was vulnerable before her, vulnerable to her, and she no better.  No better at all: she trailed her fingers from browbone to jaw, followed the bob of his Adam’s apple down to his chest.

“I hate…”  His breath caught; he pulled her closer reflexively, so that she could feel his heartbeat against her breast, his deep and sighing breath.  Arms wrapped around her, he buried his face in her hair, and they stood in silence, together.

For all his talk of hate, she felt nothing but love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: Before ya complain too much, Skitts, just imagine if Hana had a little brother who liked practicin’ his spy work, and might tell his folks about what ya’d been up to. That’s what some fellas had to work around.
> 
> (P.S. If you wanted to smooch in Medda’s costume room, I don’t think she’d mind. Just tell her me an’ Sarah sent ya.)


	46. Eighteen (24 September 1904)

The sky overhead was a flawless enamel blue, the afternoon air mild.  A few trees in the park had begun to exchange green leaves for gold and orange, lending a depth to the canopy above.  She couldn’t imagine a better day for a picnic and a celebration.

Hana had hurried home after Mass to change her dress, pick up Pauline’s gift, and then skip down the hall to fetch the guest of honor.  The Hermanns had celebrated the evening before, on her birthday proper; the clamor of extended family crowding their apartment had filled the floor, and Mrs. Hermann had baked a chocolate cake.  That left this afternoon free for Pauline to enjoy with friends.  

Paying with coins provided by Mr. Hermann they rode the trolley uptown, chattering happily along the way.  Hana had grown used to the attention that being in Pauline’s company attracted; even now a young man was watching her with undisguised interest, though she paid him no mind. 

“You are an adult now,” Hana marveled, even though Pauline had seemed an adult for as long they’d known each other.  “Does it feel different, being eighteen?”

She laughed lightly.  “You’ve been eighteen already; you should remember.”

“Oh, no.  That was so long ago, that I cannot remember.  I am an old woman now.”  She hunched her shoulders, pinched Pauline’s cheek with crabbed fingers and muttered gibberish at her in a creaky voice.  Pauline’s pealing laughter redoubled; with no little satisfaction Hana straightened.  A teasing lilt in her tone she asked, “Are you excited about seeing Calvin again?”

Her cheeks were already rosy from laughing, so Hana couldn’t tell if she blushed.  “I am,” she said pertly, eyes focused on smoothing her skirt.  “He’s quite interesting.”

“But tall.”  She shook her head ruefully.

Pauline swatted her.  “About as tall as Roman, and you seem to manage fine.”

At that point Hana thought it prudent to shift the subject away from what she did and did not manage with Roman.  “Are you excited about your presents?”

“Even more than I am about seeing Calvin.”  She grinned.

They strolled arm-in-arm up through the park, following the winding paths toward the chiming music.  As they passed the carousel Hana spun Pauline around and she threw her head back, laughing; no matter what she’d said before, Hana felt younger than her years today.

As they neared their appointed meeting-spot, under a tree and just far enough from the carousel that its music was a tinkling and piping in the air, she could see three young men.  The shortest one seemed about to climb the tree, while the other two looked on; now they were close enough to hear Roman ask “…think Pauline’ll like it if ya hurt yourself right before her picnic?”  

Whatever Tumbler’s response was she missed it, because Pauline cried, “Oh, a dog!” and Hana froze.  The sudden stop tugged her arm free from Pauline’s, as she hadn’t halted.  Hana knew that their attention was now on her, but hers was focused on the dog.  His dark fur had blended into the shade in which they stood, so she had no way to tell how big he really was.  All the same, her knees shook.

Roman was by her side in an instant, his eyes keen.  “What’s the matter?”  Without taking her eyes from it she nodded at the dog. 

Ranger, for it must have been him, stood at Calvin’s side.  One ear was pricked up as he watched the new arrivals; though he did not move from his master’s side her heart was galloping along, her body braced against the inevitable riot of barking.  Common sense told her that he must be friendly—Calvin wouldn’t have brought him along otherwise—but common sense was drowned out by the sound of her own quick breathing.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Pauline asked gently.  The teeth had been so close, the noise so loud, the breath hot and rank…  She could only nod. 

“Aw, he’s fine!” Tumbler said.  “Ranger does whatever Snoddy tells him.  He won’t bother ya.”

She started as a hand touched her arm, and missed Roman’s wince.  When his hand disappeared she shuffled closer to him; this time she didn’t shy away from his fingers on her elbow.  “Hanka,” he soothed, “ _neboj se_.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before I brought him along.  I can take him home if it’d make ya more comfortable,” Calvin offered.

But that would take who knew how long, time he could be spending with Pauline.  She forced herself to swallow, to shake her head.  Her voice was little more than a whisper.  “No.  It is alright.”

“Ya sure?”  Calvin’s brow was furrowed.  “It’s no problem—”

She dared to shut her eyes as she shook her head.  “No, no.  It will be fine.”  She smiled, knowing it was weak and watery.  “Please stay.”  A squeeze to her elbow encouraged her. 

She watched carefully as Calvin escorted Ranger to the foot of the tree, where he slipped a length of rope around the dog’s neck.  Pauline joined them, bending to scratch Ranger’s ears; Hana let out a little gasp as his mouth opened, but he merely yawned and licked his nose.  Then Pauline looked up, smiling, as Calvin took her hand and wished her many happy returns of the day. 

Roman’s hand hadn’t moved from her elbow yet.  Anchored by his touch, she closed her eyes and took one deep, steadying breath, and then another.  When she looked again Ranger was lying down; and, even better, he hadn’t barked a single time since they’d arrived.  The usual sounds of Central Park carried on uninterrupted by the sharp, angry report of barking, and, realizing that, she began to relax.  

His face was impassive, but there was that worry around his eyes again.  “Thank you,” she said.  He squeezed her arm one last time before letting go.

The other guests, Pauline’s coworkers, arrived not long after.  Josephine and Henriette were sisters, and, as Pauline introduced them, absolute geniuses with the needle: Josephine sewed by hand what was too delicate for a machine, while Henriette handled much of the embroidery work.  “You only think we’re so good because you’re hopeless at sewing,” Henriette teased softly, adjusting her glasses. 

She smiled beneficently.  “There isn’t much incentive to improve with a wizard like you around.”

In addition to transporting everything to the park (a task they had taken on after only a bit of begging and bribing), the boys had already spread out blankets on the grass and arranged the refreshments in the middle: napkin-covered plates, a bottle of lemonade and a motley assortment of cups, and a small stack of wrapped parcels.  And though Hana was meant to be the hostess, it was Pauline who knew all of the guests and who ushered everyone to the blankets.  While she may not have been a wizard at sewing, Pauline was a natural when it came to hospitality.  Without seeming to do so she directed the sisters to sit to her right and Calvin to her left.  Hana positioned herself opposite Ranger, where she could keep him in sight while remaining as far from him as possible.  It was some small comfort that Calvin was between them.  Tumbler lazed between the two older boys, and Roman sat next to her, close enough that his knee pressed against her leg.  That, too, was a comfort.

There were a dozen cookies sent from Crutchy, and squares of  _jablčnik_  from Mrs. Procházka.  Mama had made little sandwiches filled with a scraping of butter and thin slices of cucumber; Tatko had offered some  _slivovica_  to toast the birthday girl, but rescinded the offer after a sharp look from Mama.  And Mrs. Hermann had contributed half a dollar, which had helped procure a selection of tiny pastel cakes, each topped with a sugar flower.  Calvin poured out lemonade for all of them, and they raised their various glasses to Pauline with hearty cheers of best wishes.  Then they passed around the snacks and fell to eating.

With Pauline and Henriette engrossed in conversation, Roman turned to Hana.  “You alright?”  He nodded in Ranger’s direction.

The feeling of being frozen, trapped motionless, had ebbed, especially since Ranger was more interested in the park’s squirrels than in her.  Still, a cool tide of apprehension floated through her guts.  “Yes.  I feel silly to be so scared, but…”  She shrugged helplessly.

“Why?” Tumbler demanded, intent on defending Ranger’s honor.  “Did somethin’ happen?  Ya can’t just be scared for no reason.”  He ducked the smack Roman aimed at him. 

It had been so long now that it seemed like no reason.  But she’d been so young, and so terrified, and reason had not entered into it.  “There was a  _čuvač_ —you know this dog?  No,” she answered herself, tone sharpened by fear, “you are city boys.  You have never seen a sheep.”

At that Calvin snorted, though he covered it with a cough.  “I’ve seen a sheep before.  Couple of ’em, actually,” Roman pointed out.

“Me too.  Right back there.”  Tumbler jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing deeper into the park.  “Why d’ya think they call it Sheep Meadow?”

Ever since she’d heard the name she’d thought it was some kind of pastoral nostalgia, rich people idealizing simpler times that they’d never experienced.  The idea of sheep actually living in Manhattan had never occurred to her.  She squinted past Tumbler, as if she might be able to see them, though of course they were far off; had they been nearer, there would have been ample evidence. 

Roman nodded at her little shrug.  “Really.  We’ll go see ’em later.”  His knee nudged her leg.

Mollified, she went on.  “ _[Čuvač](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fupload.wikimedia.org%2Fwikipedia%2Fcommons%2Fc%2Fc6%2FCuvac_1.jpg&t=M2ZkOTkzMjVmMzYwZmI3YmJmOGI2MjBmNDA4YTdkNTI4OWU4ZTMxOCx1VkNSbXlPUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165710399895%2Fthe-sky-overhead-was-a-flawless-enamel-blue-the&m=1)_  is a big, fluffy white dog.  They are fierce, to guard sheeps from thieves and also bears and wolves.  One day when I was little I was playing in a field where I did not know there were sheep.  The dog thought I was too close to them and came to tell me this.”

“Did he bite ya?”  Tumbler’s question could have been one of morbid curiosity or genuine concern; it was likely a little of both.

“No.”  She rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms.  “But his teeth were very close, and he was very loud.  Since then, I have been afraid.”

Having explained, though poorly, she felt no less foolish.  The memory of her fear was still strong; she ought to be able to express it better.  As she spoke, Tumbler looked from her to Ranger and back, wearing a frown; then he asked, “So you’ve never even petted a dog?”  Not since then, she answered with a shake of her head.  “Maybe it’d help if ya petted Ranger some,” he suggested.  “He likes it, an’ then you could see that he’s nice.”

The idea was reasonable, and perhaps another day she would take him up on it.  For now she wanted to enjoy the afternoon as best she could.  “Some other time, maybe,” she allowed, smiling wanly at Tumbler. 

And, somewhat surprisingly, she did enjoy herself.  Pauline and Henriette told stories of working in the shop, which Roman countered with tales from Tibby’s; Calvin described a play he’d gone to see with a few of his friends.  They talked and laughed, and everyone seemed to be having a good time…with the exception of Tumbler, who looked bored to death with sitting, especially once he’d had his fill to eat.  He fidgeted on the blanket, plucking at loose threads.  Upon hearing him let loose a particularly gusty sigh Hana patted Roman’s knee, inclining her head toward the younger boy.  He glanced over and watched Tumbler for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet. 

Looking around at the others, he asked, “Anybody up for a walk to look for sheep?”

Before he’d finished the question Tumbler was standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  Hana knew she was expected to go along and took the hand Roman extended to help her up.  Pauline demurred; Calvin looked at her, and Hana, and Ranger, and said, “I better not.”

After Josephine whispered something to her Henriette said, “No sheep for us, but Josey and I are going to find some water.  If you don’t mind,” she added; Pauline said of course not, that was just fine, and Henriette turned back to the standing trio with a wink that made Roman smirk.  So they went their separate ways, leaving Pauline and Calvin (and Ranger) in the shade of the tree.  When Hana peeked back over her shoulder Calvin had shifted to face Pauline, who was smiling at him.

After only a few minutes of walking they spotted some sheep busily trimming the wide meadow.  She and Roman paused to watch the little flock graze, while Tumbler paced the boundary where grass met pathway, balancing as if on a tightrope.  The sheep were bob-tailed and dingy; like true New Yorkers they remained intent on carrying out their own business, ignoring the spectators.  An occasional bleat sounded over the grass.  This pastoral scene in the metropolis was incongruous, nearly enough to make her laugh but for the bittersweetness, the unbidden nostalgia it stirred up.

He adjusted the brim of his cap, his eyes in shadow.  “Remind ya of home?”

She hummed.  “As much as anything here can”—dimly, like a glance in a mirror at midnight, the shape of it right but the details obscured, leaving only an impression, a haunting.  Sometimes those pale reminders ached all the same.  He jammed his hands in his pockets and nodded.  It was surely less like Tábor than Revúca; still, she asked, “Do you miss it?”

“Not much.  Things like the stars, yeah; but other’n that, what I miss is…”  His shoulders hitched.  “Not the place.”

She thought of the emptiness she’d felt when Jozef had gone, wondered how bottomless it would seem multiplied by four; wondered how lost she would be without Mama and Tatko.  Did he still have grandparents there, cousins, aunts, uncles?  Was there family somewhere waiting for him?

“Why do ya call some other place home?” Tumbler asked, with narrowed eyes only partly due to the sun.  Though the question was directed to Roman, the swing of his head included her.  “I know ya came from somewhere else, but you’ve lived here a long time, Skitts.  Are ya really gonna try an’ tell me New York ain’t home?”  There was a plaintive note to his question, a vulnerability he tried to mask by glaring harder.

“Nah.  O’ course Manhattan’s home.  Wanna know why?”  Tumbler shrugged, his shoulders jerking, and refused to meet the other’s eye.  Roman took advantage of his inattention to catch hold of Tumbler’s hand, grasping it tight.  At the unexpected gesture Tumbler looked up, surprise written on his features; it was compounded by the sincerity of Roman’s smile.  “’Cause you’re here.”

Tumbler blinked, and then, rather shyly, returned the smile.  But only for a moment; then he seemed to remember himself and shuddered.  “Ugh.”  The proper response conveyed, he set about trying to pry his hand free.

Ignoring the struggle taking place at the end of his arm, Roman turned to her.  “An’ I’d miss ya if ya weren’t.”  All he had to do was offer his hand; she would always take it, and did now.

“ _Ugh_.”  This sounded much more heartfelt. 

To anyone passing they must have made a pretty picture standing there at the edge of the Sheep Meadow, the three of them hand in hand.  At least, that is, until Tumbler grew tired of trying to wrench himself free and simply dropped to the ground, a dead weight.  Then Roman stumbled toward him with a grunt, and Hana collided with his shoulder, and all at once they were laughing.

When they returned the sisters were just settling down on the blankets again.   As far as she could tell Ranger was asleep, a canine pastime that Hana fully supported.  Despite the shade Pauline’s cheeks were flushed as she asked after the sheep.  After they’d caught up on their ramblings—Josephine and Henriette had taken several turns around the carousel, and the remaining pair had “just talked,” to the incredulity of some of the party—Calvin suggested it might be a good time to give Miss Hermann their presents.

With a shrewd look at his friend Roman murmured, “I think he might’ve given her somethin’ already.”  Hana elbowed him in the stomach, though she hoped he was right.

Tumbler insisted that she open the one from him and Roman first.  Pauline unwrapped the little parcel to reveal two hatpins; over the laughter of all assembled he explained that the one with the hilt of a sword was from Roman, while the one topped with a blue glass forget-me-not was from him.  She thanked them both, even giving Tumbler a kiss on the cheek.  He sat down hastily, his face aflame.  Hana gave her a tiny bottle of rose oil, some of which she immediately dabbed on her wrist, sniffing it with a dreamy sigh.  Calvin’s present was a volume of selected sonnets from Shakespeare, for which she thanked him sincerely; when she opened the cover something she saw inside made her bite her lip and close the book with care, cradling it in her lap, tracing a fingertip over the cover.  For his part, Calvin seemed pleased with her reaction.  Then the sisters presented her with a long, canvas-wrapped bundle.

Tumbler pitched forward onto his knees, hands planted on his thighs as he leaned toward Pauline.  “Bet it’s a real sword,” he hissed.

“Sure.  Just what she needs.”

Calvin shook his head.  “It’s too short to be a sword.”  More than one head swung his way at the matter-of-fact pronouncement; he merely shrugged a shoulder. 

Even before she’d completely unwound the canvas Pauline let out a squeal.  Ranger raised his head from his paws at the sound; then, seeing that there were no vermin that needed menacing, he dropped his nose with a huff.  Meanwhile Pauline had swiftly but delicately put aside her other gifts and scampered to her feet to free a parasol from the wrapping.  With another squeal she opened it, revealing a dome of ivory fabric over a blonde wood handle and vanes.  It was terribly impractical and elegant.

“Could have a knife in the handle,” Roman whispered to Tumbler, who’d fallen back to his rear upon seeing the feminine and therefore uninteresting object.  He snickered.

Raising it over her head, she beamed at Henriette and Josephine.  “You didn’t!” she cried.  “I can’t thank you enough!  Oh, but it’s too much.”  Her protest was rather weakened by the glances she kept stealing up at the lace-trimmed canopy.  It was like seeing a fashion plate come to life.  Hana couldn’t help but notice that Calvin looked charmed by the picture—but who wouldn’t be?

Henriette issued a noise of dismissal.  “Never you mind, miss.  You only turn eighteen once, and we knew how much you wanted it.”

“You deserve it,” Josephine added, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You darlings.  Thank you.”  She turned her smile, rosy and fresh and genuine, on the rest of them then.  “Thank you all.  I couldn’t have asked for a lovelier afternoon.”

That was quite good enough for Hana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neboj se = don’t be afraid
> 
> Yes, the Roths have a dog, but he is very old and Hana has never actually seen him move. She still prefers not to be in the same room as him.


	47. Meta: Faith and Agnosticism

I don’t want to reduce the idea of religion to a plot point, so I’m not going to write this discussion into a story.  But since Hana’s faith and its practice are an integral part of her character, this bears contemplating.

Hana is Catholic.  Based on [jackcowboyhero](https://tmblr.co/mc0-_nilvphQ-JKSaIV9FkQ)’s [response on the subject](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/117903654522/are-you-or-any-of-the-newsies-religious-i-figured), which is, of course, canon for this whole deal, Skitts is not religious.  As in real life, this is an issue that they will need to address at some point, should their relationship continue.

I think that Hana hasn’t explicitly invited Skittery to church with them for two basic reasons.  One is that she considers it understood that he is welcome to join them whenever he wants–he knows where she spends her Sunday mornings, and all he has to do is ask when and where.  The fact that he hasn’t asked–because he isn’t in on this implicit open invitation–signals to her that he isn’t interested in going.  Which leads into the second reason being that she wants to avoid any awkwardness, at best, and huge confrontation, at worst, that might ensue if she invites him and he says no.  (For the record, Tumbler hasn’t been invited simply because he doesn’t understand Slovak and would be totally lost and bored.)

Pauline had no problem inviting herself to Mass with Hana, and that might be the impetus that they need to approach the subject.  I can imagine Pauline bringing it up at some point, assuming that Roman has gone with the Kollárs, and that being the push Hana needs to come out and invite him along; I can also imagine Hana realizing for herself that maybe he’s been polite enough not to intrude on something that she shares with her parents.  That still leaves her to work up the courage to ask, though.

On the other hand, maybe it’s Skittery who asks.  He’s a smart guy; it would, I believe, be in character for him to realize ‘As this is something important to someone important to me, I should at least pay attention.’  And, since he is smart, it’s likely that he’s a little curious about what goes on on Sunday mornings.  So maybe he asks if he can join them knowing that it would make Hana (and her parents) happy, and figuring that even if he doesn’t have any spiritual epiphanies, he’ll still be learning something.

A third option is that Tatko invites him.  In that case, I don’t think Skitts can possibly say no.  Would he feel touched that they want to include him, or suspicious about their motives and backed into a corner by that inability to refuse?  I think it depends on the day, really.

(Mama would support either Hana or Tatko inviting him.  Her biggest church-related input is that no matter who she marries, Hana will definitely be getting married in the church, end of story.  And Hana agrees on that point, though somewhat less aggressively.)

So say he does join them: what’s he going to think of everything?  I’m sure he’ll have the feeling that he’s sticking out, since everyone else knows what they’re doing–when to kneel, when to stand, when to cross themselves, and all of the words to the [ _Otčenáš_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Flh.kbs.sk%2Fdocs%2Fotcenas.htm&t=NWRhZGQyYWU3YTdkYjQ4MzhhZTMzZjg0MGJhYzA5NDMwZWNmNjkzYixrczlPZW9UOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165745726850%2Fi-dont-want-to-reduce-the-idea-of-religion-to-a&m=1), without having to consult the hymnal–and he’s always just a beat behind.  And he’ll very rightfully have the feeling that everyone is looking at him because they are.  Hana Kollár bring a young man to Mass?  That’s never happened before, and you bet the old ladies want to know all about him.  Probably all of this attention rubs him the wrong way; hopefully he’s willing to put up with it for Hana’s sake.  I also hope he’d be curious enough about some of what he heard and saw to put in a little reading in his free time–though rather than the Bible, I think he’d first look into something like the [ _Baltimore Catechism_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FBaltimore_Catechism&t=YzVkYmM4ZTg0MDZlYWU4MTdmZDQ5Y2JkNTBhMzE5MWFmYmZlZTU5ZCxrczlPZW9UOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165745726850%2Fi-dont-want-to-reduce-the-idea-of-religion-to-a&m=1).  And I’d like to think that he and Tatko would have some good conversations about faith and religion.

That said, I don’t necessarily think he’s going to convert.  I think he knows that her religion is something that Hana isn’t going to give up, and I don’t think he’d want her to; if he loves her, why would he want her to abandon something that’s part of her?  So I imagine he accepts that if they marry she’ll be going to Mass on Sunday mornings, with or without him, and that he’ll be expected to attend on Christmas and Easter, at the least.

 I may not be positive about all of his reactions and thoughts, but I know for sure that Hana is certainly concerned about the fate of his immortal soul, would like nothing better than for him to join the Church, and would be very happy when or if he ever joined her family at Mass.


	48. Bez práce nie sú koláče (2 October 1904)

_Zazvor_ ,  _škorica_ ,  _nové korenie_ ,  _muka_ ,  _mlieko_ ,  _cukor_ ,  _vajcia_ …  And a knock at the door.

She dusted flour off her hands before she left the kitchen.  “Hey,” Roman said when she opened the door.  “I saw your ma on the way up; she said I should come help you.”  His expression had been curious, puzzled by her mother’s words, but as he took in her apron light dawned.  One corner of his mouth raised.

Hana stepped aside to let him in, then lifted her face for a kiss.  He willingly obliged before shutting the door behind them.  “Will you really help?” she asked over her shoulder as she headed back into the kitchen.

“Sure.”  When he joined her he’d shucked his coat; now, standing beside her with hands on hips, he surveyed the counter.  “What’re we makin’?”  

To her it was obvious: the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and ginger and sugar; the oven was warming slowly.  “ _Perník_.”  What else could it be? 

“Cake or cookies?”

“Cake.  We will have  _perník na figurky_  at Christmas.” 

He picked up a small tin, levered off the lid, and sniffed deeply.  “What’s the occasion?” he asked, wrinkling his nose and closing the tin.  Maybe the Roths and Vande Kerks could afford to have cake whenever they pleased; the Kollárs and Kučeras of the world needed a reason, and a good one at that.

“Mama’s name day is soon.  Every year I make  _perník_  for her.”  She’d started one year when Mama hadn’t been feeling well, and had carried on ever since.  Now it didn’t feel like autumn had really begun until she’d made the cake.

He nodded, looking over the counter full of tins and jars and bottles, a big wooden spoon at the ready next to an empty bowl, the baking pan already greased and floured.  “So what do we do first?”  

She stared at him for a moment, considering; apart from carrying groceries home he’d never done anything to instill confidence in his domestic capabilities, and she could make the recipe practically in her sleep.  But it wouldn’t hurt if he pitched in.  Probably.

“If you are going to help—”

“I said I was gonna, didn’t I?”  With his face screwed up in a mock scowl, he crossed his arms.  “Besides, your ma told me to.”

“—then you will need an apron.  Vest off,” she ordered.

“Tryin’ to get me undressed, Miss Kollár?”

If Mama had told him to come up while Hana was there alone, it was because she trusted that Hana would not be distracted from her baking.  Normally she would be right; but the smirking curl of his lips and the way he reached for the top button, sliding it out of the hole deliberately and not once breaking eye contact, were awfully tempting.  She turned away to grab Mama’s apron, ignoring his self-satisfied chuckle as he threw the vest onto the chair with his coat.  When he returned, rolling up his sleeves, she slipped the apron over his head, then wrapped her arms around him to cross the long strings, bringing them forward to tie at his waist.  It was neither surprise nor disappointment that he took advantage of the proximity to kiss her, dropping playful pecks on her cheeks and lips; she dodged them as best she could.

He was laughing at she tugged sharply on the knot.  “I must pay attention now,” she warned.  “And you must pay attention to me.”

“I am payin’ attention to you.  Can’t ya tell?”  His hands settled at her waist, trying to pull her closer, but she stood her ground.

“Not like that.  You must listen to what I say, Roman.  I do not want to make a mistake with Mama’s cake.   _Rozumieš_?”

Something flickered in his eyes before he let her go.  “ _Rozumím_.”

And thereafter he did indeed follow her directions, creaming together the butter and sugar in one bowl as she shook flour into the other.  He watched what she was doing with genuine interest; for her part, she had to blink away from the movement of the muscles in his forearm as he stirred.  “Aren’t ya s’posed to measure that stuff?”

“Not if you are good,” she answered, allowing a self-satisfied smirk.  He laughed.

“Somebody’s been spendin’ too much time with Tumbs.”

“Next I will be spitting before I shake hands.”  She directed him to crack the eggs into his bowl and beat them in, and then added spices into her own.

“Pauline’ll love that.”

“Now add some milk.  A little more…that is good.”  

He stirred the milk in carefully, though he kept glancing from the contents of the bowl to the ingredients she’d laid out before his arrival.  His eyebrows began to knit together; when she was about to ask what was wrong, he wondered aloud, “No honey?  Matka used to make it that way.  I think,” he added, his frown deepening.

Though she wouldn’t dare contradict either his mother or his memory of her, this recipe was in its third generation and she would stand by it.  “There are many different recipes, as many as there are mothers.  This is how my mama learned it from her mama.”  A little at a time, she poured her mixture of flour and spices into his bowl, pausing to let him combine the two.  “But,” she added, trying not to sound too conspicuously encouraging, “honey goes in  _figurky_.”

Roman didn’t look up from his stirring, but some tension eased from his face.  “Maybe that was it.”

“We will make some at Christmas,” she said again.  “Do you think Tumbler will help?”

He chuckled.  “Help eat ’em, sure.”

She gently pushed him out of the way and finished mixing the batter herself, checking for lumps and eyeing the color.  As she did he wiped his hands on the apron and watched—and this time, she could tell, he was watching not what she did but her.  “Done,” she announced, as if it had been the former.  Though it wasn’t necessary he held the prepared pan steady as she poured the batter in.  When she’d scraped the dregs into the pan and spread the batter to the edges she handed him the spoon to lick, and she dragged her finger around the inside of the bowl.  

The batter was perfectly fragrant, light and sweet.  She licked the last of it from her finger and looked up at him.  “What do you think?”

His eyes were on her fingertip and her mouth; then he wrenched them away to blink at the spoon in his hand like he’d never seen it before.  He trailed his tongue up the inner curve and a shiver ran up her back.  “It’s good,” he said, his voice low.  When their eyes met she hoped he’d start paying attention to her the other way again; but he cleared his throat and looked at the pan and asked, “How long’s it gotta cook for?”

“An hour.”  She slid the pan into the oven, checked the temperature and then the time.  By the time it was done and the kitchen cleaned, Mama or Tatko or both would be home.  It was probably for the best.

Roman had stationed himself in front of the sink and was piling it full of the bowls and spoons.  “Now this I know how to do,” he said.  “I’ll have you know I was trained in dish-washin’ at one of the finest dinin’ establishments in this city.”

“Delmonico’s?” she gasped, eyes wide and one hand at her throat.  

His head had jerked up at her startled noise; now he rolled his eyes.  “Maybe you’ve been spendin’ too much time with me,” he grumbled, unable to hide a smile.  

The bottle of milk went back into the icebox, the dry ingredients into their cupboards.  If making the  _perník_  had taken a bit longer with him there, cleaning up after it was taking less time than usual, and for that she was thankful.  Something made her pause, the jar of flour in her hands, and take in the scene.  The kitchen was bathed in late-afternoon light, buttery and soft; the scent of gingerbread and the warmth of the oven had flooded the apartment.  From the sink came a gentle plashing as Roman scrubbed, and above that she could just make out his humming.  A feeling she couldn’t name crowded her chest, a feeling that was even now expanding, spreading out of her to fill the room.  He looked as content as she’d ever seen him, and that it was while doing something so mundane, so quotidian as washing up made her heart clench in sadness and hope at once.  She didn’t want to move, to breathe, to do anything that would change this moment; she wanted to feel like this always.  Still clutching the jar, she kissed him on the cheek.

Though one dark eyebrow raised he neither stopped washing nor spoke.  But a happy noise interrupted his humming, and he smiled.

By the time Mama returned home the dishes had been dried and put away, the cake was on the counter, covered with a cloth, and Roman (again in his vest) and Hana were side by side on the settee, the one reading as the other sewed.  She looked up to see Mama sniffing the air with satisfaction.

Roman shut the book.  “I’ll get out o’ here now,” he said.  

“You must come back and try the  _perník_ ,” Mama told him.  When he protested— or tried to, at least—that that wasn’t necessary and it was her cake, she spoke over him, saying that since it was her cake, she could share it with whoever she wanted, so he and Andy should come try some after dinner on Thursday.  To that there was nothing he could do but agree.

As he stood Hana put aside her sewing and made to rise, but he stopped her.  “Don’t worry about it; I can see myself out.  Thanks for lettin’ me help,” he said, shrugging on his coat.

“Thank you for—”  She stopped herself before “helping”; instead she tilted her head a bit and looked up at him with innocent eyes.  “For paying very good attention,” she concluded.

He planted one hand on the arm of the settee and the other on its back; when he leaned down she still had to tip her head up to look him in the eye.  “I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ how the cake turned out.  ’Course,” he murmured, “I already know how it tastes,” and captured her lips, his own spicy-sweet and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bez práce nie sú koláče = though often translated as “No pain, no gain,” the proverb literally means “Without work, there are no cakes.”
> 
> Zazvor, škorica, nové korenie, muka, mlieko, cukor, vajcia = ginger, cinnamon, allspice, flour, milk, sugar, eggs
> 
> perník = bread or cake-type gingerbread
> 
> perník na figurky = gingerbread cookies (though in my experience, somewhat puffier than I’d expect to find in America)
> 
> Rozumieš = Do you understand? (SK)
> 
> Rozumím = I understand. (CZ)
> 
> JACK: LOOK AT SKITTS BEIN’ DOMESTIC
> 
> (I asked Sarah if she’d trust me to help her bake, and she said NO. …She’s prob'ly justified.)


	49. Meta: Hana/Skitts

**How differently do they think of each other now compared to when they first met?**  
Skittery probably thought that this nice, respectable girl shouldn’t be wasting her time talking to a guy like him.  He can’t claim he wasn’t a little flattered at the attention, though.  And at first Hana really was just interested in this Czech boy’s story; she felt sorry for him losing his family like that, but admired how he’d been rebuilding his life, and his relationship with Tumbler.  Skitts does still think that she deserves better than him, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone take her away from him, better or not.  The respectable part has been tough for him to deal with; he’s never had to wait this long to kiss a girl, and that’s all he gets to do with her.  Many evenings it doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but then she looks up at him with those soft eyes and tells him she loves him and he can hardly believe it’s true.  Though there’s a lot Hana still wants to know about him, about his family and his past, she wants to hear it in his own time, as he’s comfortable telling it; she treasures those things he reveals because they show that he trusts her.  She isn’t sure exactly how she ended up with a beau, and that Roman is hers would surprise her if being with him didn’t feel so natural.  And if—not now, but soon, sometime in the not-so-distant future—he asked her to marry him, she’s got a pretty good idea about what her answer would be.

**What do their friends/family think of their relationship?**  
It would not be true to say that Matej is totally fine with this kid sweeping his daughter off her feet.  He definitely has reservations, based on everything from the fact that he considers Hana slightly more naïve than she is to the fact that Roman is a waiter who lives in a boardinghouse and isn’t, from Matej’s point of view, in a good position to take care of Hana.  But he does like Roman; he’s smart, and it’s painfully obvious how much he cares about her.  If he were just an acquaintance, Viera could take him or leave him.  But as a future son-in-law—Hana’s old enough and in love enough that they have to consider that possibility—he’s not ideal: he isn’t Catholic, he doesn’t seem to have any plans for advancing his career, he’s got Andy to look after (and if you think she hasn’t squinted at the two boys and tried to work out if their familial relationship wasn’t a little closer than they let on then you’d be wrong).  But there doesn’t seem to be much sense in trying to talk Hana out of the relationship at this point, and deep in her heart she trusts her daughter to do what’s right.  From her perspective, Roman has some work to do before he’s worthy of marrying Hana; until he succeeds or fails at that, she’ll bide her time.

Tumbler thinks that if Skitts’ gotta be all moony over some girl, it might as well be Hana.  She doesn’t try to tell him what to do, and doesn’t treat him like he’s less than her because he’s younger or because he’s a newsie.  He’s just beginning to realize that a girl can make you feel different, so it makes a little more sense to him now how much happier Skittery gets when Hana’s around. Anybody who makes Skitts happy can’t be that bad.

Pauline likes Roman, and thinks that their courtship is the sweetest thing she’s ever seen in real life…at least until Calvin showed up, that is.

**How do their personalities/skills complement or contrast with each other?**  
Skitts is much more streetwise and aware of all of the dangers that lurk in the city.  He’s not about to be taken in by any two-bit con artist or grifter.  He will also knock a dude out if necessary, which is not a terrible skill to have in a city.  Hana would consider herself a realist rather than an idealist; either way she’s much more optimistic than he is, and that outlook is necessary to offset some of his gloominess sometimes.  Of course, she’s a competent cook and is much more organized and tidy than he is.  She’ll be a good wife, whoever she marries.

**What is their favorite aspect of each other?**  
She’s sweet and patient and good, and that makes him want to be better.  He’s persevered through so much, and she admires that strength in him.  Plus they both think the other is pretty cute.

**Do either of them have pet peeves about each other?**  
With frustrating regularity, Skittery refuses to just say what’s bothering him, or possibly can’t articulate what’s making him so upset.  Hana feels like it would help them both if he would just explain what’s wrong, but tries her best not to get upset with him in return.  And sometimes he feels like he’s drowning under her concern and his attempts not to fail her.  He knows she isn’t actually nagging or smothering him, but after depending on and being accountable only to himself for so long, even her efforts to understand and support him can feel like too much responsibility.

In the future, she occasionally wakes him up by accident on Sunday morning on her way to Mass.  Sometimes he gets legitimately annoyed that she’s going off to church, to which he doesn’t see much point; but more often he’s just grumpy about being woken up too early on his day off, and not getting to spend that time with her.

**How would each reconcile with each other after a fight?**  
Generally Hana gets over whatever they argued about fairly easily, but she can still feel hurt by the way they disagreed.  It would be important for Skitts to let her know that he still values her.  She’s much more apt to apologize quickly if she thinks she’s been wrong, and would definitely be the type to make him his favorite dinner to atone.

**What would be their ideal vacation getaway together?**  
If she had all the money in the world, Hana would take him (and probably Tumbler) back to Europe to see Tábor and show him Revúca.  But that isn’t likely to happen, and he’s not all that interested in revisiting the past anyway.  So they’d be more likely to travel to somewhere out in the country—maybe Brace Farm to visit Jack and Sarah and Danny.  That way Tumbler could go along and be kept safe and occupied while Hana and Skitts enjoy some time alone.

**Think of a new way (AU, different situation, etc.) they could have met for the first time.**  
Modern AU: Skittery is a university student, or at least that age.  One summer night he lets Blink drag him along to a party where “There’ll be hot foreign girls!”  Predictably, his friend disappears first thing, and Skitts, unimpressed with the Euro-dance music and figuring that while yes, the foreign girls are indeed hot, they’re not going to be interested in him, wanders into the kitchen.

Hana didn’t want to go to the party, but all of her roommates are there, and they wouldn’t let her stay in the apartment alone another night.  She’s in New York for the summer with a work travel permit, and has been spending her days cleaning hotel rooms.  Her roommates swore they’d find her someone to hook up with at this party; luckily they forgot that almost the moment they arrived.  Eventually she ends up in the kitchen and, out of a combination of discomfort and boredom, starts tidying it up.  Her best friend finds her and tries to get her to join the party; Hana promises she will in just a few minutes.  It’s not until her friend is leaving that they notice the dark-haired guy who’s come in.  Blushing, she starts to follow her friend; but then the guy asks if they were speaking Czech, and it’s the closest someone’s gotten to recognizing her since she got to JFK.  

Some time later her friend returns to the kitchen, ready to physically drag her out, only to watch from the doorway as the two talk, smiling shyly at each other.


	50. Violets (4 October 1904)

Every tongue in C.M. James and Co. stilled at the distinctly masculine tread of the newest customer.  While not the usual clientele, men were not unheard of there; husbands came in to pick up dresses for their wives, fathers to buy trinkets for their daughters.  But young bachelors—for each girl there scrutinized every male customer for the tell-tale signs of matrimony—were rarest of all.

And this one looked a peach.  His suit, though clearly not Brooks Brothers, was still fine and neat.  Upon entering the store he’d swept off his cap in such a way that his hair remained in place.  Though his face was spattered with freckles, he didn’t have the bearing or coarseness of one who labored outdoors.  As he turned his head, studying the contents of the shop, every girl moved forward, ready to offer him her assistance.

Letty, slippery as an eel and twice as sinuous, got to him first.  Pauline almost felt sorry for him, having to deal with her.  “How may I be of service, sir?” she asked, the dip of her dark head taking him in, from his slightly dusty shoes—he’d walked, not come in a private vehicle—to his starched collar.

His answering smile was polite, though he still seemed to be searching for something in the shop.  “Good morning.  I was looking for a gift.”

“For…?”  It wasn’t strictly necessary to know, but it did help with recommendations.  

The other girls had gone back to what they’d been doing before his arrival.  Pauline sidled toward her coworker and the customer, straightening a folded blouse as she passed it; she stopped just within earshot and well out of Letty’s field of vision.  But the customer caught her eye and flashed a smile before he answered Letty,

“For a special young lady.”

If she could, Letty would have left him right there.  Now she was stuck helping this eligible-looking young man pick out a present for another girl.  “Is it a special occasion?” she all but grit out.  Pauline didn’t need to see her expression to know that it was as sour as if she’d sucked a lemon.

“Not really.  But I was hopin’ to take her out dancing this weekend.”  Again his gaze darted to her.

Dancing!  Pauline nodded as eagerly as if he’d asked her himself.  Calvin’s smile curved a little higher at one corner; she began wondering what she ought to wear. 

“We have a number of accessories that make fine presents,” Letty offered unenthusiastically.  “Belts, gloves, hatpins—”

“She’s got enough of those, I think,” he murmured. Pauline threw her hands up.  Perhaps prodding Mr. Ballatt hadn’t been such a bright idea after all; it seemed she would never live it down.

“—handkerchiefs, stockings…”  Letty trailed off, a familiar tilt to her head that boded ill for Calvin.  Even now color was flaring in his cheeks. 

He swallowed.  “Um, I don’t…”

Deliberately misunderstanding, she hurried to reassure him, leaning forward for good measure.  “They’re very fine stockings.  I’m wearing some myself.”

Pauline could kill her.

His flush deepened, and he cleared his throat.  “I think I’d just like to take a look around, if ya don’t mind.”

“Certainly, sir.”  Letty was wearing that evil smirk of hers now, Pauline just knew it.  She managed to sound both obsequious and insinuating as she said, “Whatever you want.”

With a short nod Calvin backed away a step.  Pauline watched as Letty pivoted, her eyes rolling, and swayed toward the back of the shop.  Once the other girl was gone Pauline picked up an item at random and hurried forward.

She managed to collide with him just as he was turning.  From a distance it must have looked like an accident; even if Letty had gone off to sulk the other girls were probably watching, and she didn’t want Mr. James to catch her shirking to chat with…an acquaintance on his time.  In fact she’d bumped into him harder than she’d meant to, though she hid her grimace.  “I’m so sorry!” she cried, gliding back only a little.  “How clumsy of me.”

“Not at all.”  He stepped to his left at the same time she stepped to her right; then they both stepped in the opposite direction, looked at each other, and chuckled.  “Maybe I should ask  _you_  out dancing,” he said. 

She smiled politely.  “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your special young lady.”

“No,” he murmured, his eyes warm.  Then, blowing out a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair.  “But maybe you could help me.  I’m a little nervous about meetin’ her parents for the first time,” he confided, “and I thought if I brought her a little present they’d see I’m not just some masher.”

She nearly laughed: he was the picture of a young gentleman, not a hint of the dandy about him.  “Anyone could see that!  I’m sure her parents wouldn’t think such a thing about you, present or no.”

“I hope not.  But she’s just turned eighteen, and she’s lovely.“  Pauline’s heart did a flip-flop at that.  Her chin dipped, though that couldn’t disguise her blush.  He went on, "I want her and her parents to know that I’m not tryin’ to waste her time.  That my intentions are honorable.”  

Oh, she could swoon right there next to the wool winter suits.  She had to remember to thank Hana and Roman for thinking of introducing them—but she could hardly think of her friends with him standing right there, all gallantry.  With a half-unconscious flutter of her eyelashes she looked up at him. 

“That’s very noble of you.  Any young lady’s parents would appreciate your efforts.”  Hers would, if she had anything to say about it. “And—I shouldn’t tell you this—” she added in a hush, peeking over her shoulder before leaning closer, “—but you needn’t buy her anything here.  Some flowers would be fine.”

When he too leaned in she caught a breath of some faint, spicy cologne.   _Vater im Himmel_ , as her grandmother would say, but he was attractive. 

“I was really just lookin’ for an excuse to come in and see you,” he whispered back, “but I’ll bring flowers.”  

“I didn’t mean you had to—you needn’t feel obligated…”

“I don’t,” he said simply.  And then he grinned, charming and boyish.  

For the first time in ages she felt at a disadvantage; it was some unsettling combination of vertigo and the feeling of being underdressed.  At the same time, the quick pattering of her pulse and the fizzing in her stomach weren’t unpleasant.  Still, tonight would be different.  Tonight she’d be ready for him. 

As he straightened up he asked, “When do you suppose a good time to call around and introduce myself would be?”

She pretended to think for a minute.  “Probably after dinner.  Say, around seven?”  She’d be done with the dishes then; Father would have had his cigar, lounging half out the window to smoke it, and Mother would be repeating the gossip she’d heard that day.  Calvin stopping by would be an absolutely delightful change to the routine.  “Your visit will be kept short by the hour, as is appropriate for a first meeting.”

He answered with a brief nod and a conspiratorial wink.  Then, raising his head, he made a show of checking the store’s clock.  In a voice sure to carry he said, “You’ve been most helpful, miss.  Thank you.”

Her own tone was fawning.  “It was my pleasure.  Please come again.”

“I’m sure I will.”  They drifted toward the door together.  Pauline stopped to fuss over a mannequin’s outfit, plucking lint from its fitted jacket.  After watching her for a moment he said quietly, “See ya tonight.” 

“Violets.”  He cocked his head; the action reminded her so much of Ranger that she giggled.  “My mother likes violets.”

He showed up at the apartment with a bunch for her and a pink rose for Pauline, and left with a date for Saturday night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: GO GET ‘EM SNODDY
> 
> (although, if it ain’t clear by now, Pauline’s the one who swept right off the pages o’ a dime novel)


	51. Shiv (7 October 1904)

“I am bein’ punished for my sins,” he intoned.

“Aw, come on, Skitts,” Calvin said cheerfully.  “Everybody knows you deserve much worse than this.”

“Yes,” Pauline put in, peering around Calvin with an incredulous expression, “and I can think of much more awful things than taking your beloved out dancing.”  So could the beloved in question, who added her unimpressed stare.

“I bet ya could,” he muttered, fighting a blush.  It occurred to him that if he didn’t want his friends to remark on his relationship so much, maybe he should act a little less besotted.  “An’ the punishment’s bein’ responsible for you two.”

“Now you know how I felt,” Pauline answered tartly.

“Besides: you, being responsible for us?”  Calvin raised an eyebrow. 

Roman’s jaw dropped in outrage.  “Hey, I’m responsible!  I’ve kept the kid alive, haven’t I?”

“So far,” Hana murmured.  The others snickered. 

“Betrayed by my own girl,” he grumbled, pulling her closer.  “I can’t believe it.”

“ _I_  can’t believe you were going to let Andy sneak in.”

“Just for one dance!  He loves dancin’, you know that.”

Tumbler had indeed pouted when their plan was nixed, nipped in the bud by Pauline’s disapproving expression.  His protests that he just wanted to dance with her couldn’t entirely sway her, even when the sight of his big, sad eyes drew a tiny “Oh” of weakness from her.  She stood firm, though, bolstered by the idea that they ought to be good role models to him.  By the time they left Mama was plying him with cookies, which appeared to assuage his loneliness.

The big hall was filling rapidly when they arrived.  Couples were outnumbered by groups of girls walking arm-in-arm and boys straightening their ties. Many of the unaccompanied young ladies were lavishly dressed, their gowns bright and their hair piled high; Hana felt her dress was plain in comparison, though Pauline, of course, looked fresh and tasteful.  She pulled Calvin out onto the dance floor almost immediately, leaving Roman and Hana to find a place to sit.

As the next tune began, with no sign of the others returning, Roman took her hand.  The song sounded familiar; she was sure she’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it until the singer began warbling the first verse. Roman rolled his eyes.  “You should’ve heard Jack back when this first came out.  Mornin’ an’ night he’s singin’ ‘My Wild Irish Rose’ like he’s Chauncey Olcott himself. An’ now look at him, married to a Polish girl.”  

Despite his initial reaction he hummed along as they waltzed; she could feel the vibrations through the hand on his shoulder, wanted to put her head on his chest to listen.  “You have a good voice.  Why don’t you sing more?” she wondered.

“I used to—well, we all did, all o’ the boys, on our way to sell an’ such.  It was a good way to wake up.  But now…”  He shrugged.  “Just don’t have the chance much anymore.”

“You don’t think Mr. Tibby would like you to sing to your customers?  You would get good tips, I think.”

She felt his laughter, too, rumbling beneath her fingertips.  “I don’t know if that’s true, but I wouldn’t mind if it was.  Maybe Tibby’d be okay with it if I promised to stay off o’ the tables.”  At her curious look he told her about some rather vigorous celebrating at the restaurant after they’d gotten their picture on the front page.  His face lit up at the memory; seeing how happy he was lessened the distaste she felt at having eaten off of those tables.

“And Mr. Tibby still hired you after that?”  

“It surprised me, too.  But don’t worry; I’ve spent enough time cleanin’ those tables since then.”

All the same, she’d do her best to forget about it the next time she went to Tibby’s.  For now she slid her hand up his shoulder.  “You know,” she said, offhand, “if you ever want a reason to sing, you can sing to me.”

His smile softened. “I think I could do that,  _miláčku_.”

A few songs later they returned to the table just as the other pair did.  She’d caught brief glimpses of them as they danced—though it could have been some other blonde, a different young man.  Now Pauline’s hand still rested in the crook of Calvin’s arm as they stood, while Roman had already helped Hana into a seat and sat down himself.  The younger girl addressed him.

“Roman, would you dance with me?” she requested sweetly.  He looked at her with undisguised suspicion, though her smile never wavered; his glance at the others was met only with a shrug from Calvin and an encouraging nod from Hana.  

“Alright.”  He rose as slowly as he’d answered and took her hand to escort her to the dance floor.

When they were safely out of earshot of the others she turned keen eyes up to him and asked, “Has Calvin said anything about me?”  Or at least she tried to; she didn’t reach the end of her question before her partner was laughing over it.

“Calvin!” he crowed. “What a name.  That poor guy.”

Piqued on her escort’s behalf, she demanded, “What’s so wrong with Calvin?  It’s much better than Skittery.  Or Snoddy.”  A delicate shudder shook her.

“As long as we’ve known each other, he’s been Snoddy.  Seems strange to call him anything else.”

“Why didn’t you just use your given names?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, steering them around a tipsy gentleman and his giggling partner. “When ya get a bunch o’ guys together, they’re bound to give each other nicknames.  Especially when some of ’em are runnin’ from one thing or another.”

That was both logical and sobering.  “But why something that sounds so unpleasant?”

He fixed her with a look.  “What would you expect of a bunch o’ newsies?  Anyway, not everybody’s nickname is that bad; some of us got obvious ones, like Racetrack an’ Boots an’ Swifty, but some are more mysterious, like Bumlets an’ Jake.”

“‘Jake’ is mysterious?”

“Very.”  He was studying her now.  “Now, if you came out to sell, the fellas’d call you something like…Shiv.  That’s a homemade knife,” he explained helpfully. “Y’know, since ya like stabbin’ people.”

“I do not like stabbing people.  I’ve only stabbed one person!”  A woman dancing nearby glanced their way with an exclamation of “My word!”, her eyes wide in alarm.  If she timed it right, Pauline could kick him and not miss a step.  “And it was with a  _pin!_ ”

He grinned. “Whatever ya say, Shiv.”

Pauline opened her mouth, snapped it shut again, and glared.  Telling him not to call her that would only encourage him to continue.  So they danced on, one still grinning and the other still glaring.

After a full verse had passed he dared to speak again.  “If you keep lookin’ at me like that, somebody’s gonna think I offended you.”

“You did,” she sniffed.

Though he knew she was less aggrieved than her tone implied, he took pity on her.  “Look,” he began, “he hasn’t said anythin’ about you. But he likes you.  He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

“Alright, but—”

He shook his head, squeezing her hand at the same time.  “No buts, kid.  I’m only gonna say this once, so listen good.”  He waited until she met his eyes before going on, his words deliberate and serious.  “Snoddy’s one o’ the best guys I know.  He means what he says, an’ he don’t lie, period.  Whatever he tells ya—if he says ya look pretty, or that he’ll be there at a certain time—you can believe him.”  Roman paused; then he gave her a crooked smile.  “And if ya ever find out he’s lied, let me know an’ I’ll knock the sense back into him.”

Pauline blinked quickly against the watery feeling in her eyes.  “You big softy,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, well.” To avoid meeting her gaze he looked off over her shoulder.  “Don’t go spreadin’ it around.”

“I won’t.  And thank you, Roman.”

He winked.  “Sure thing, Shiv.”

* * *

As Roman and Pauline took to the floor, Calvin turned to her.  “Would you care to dance, Hana?” Despite the cordiality of his tone, she still felt hesitant as she nodded and stood.

“I have only danced with Roman and Pauline,” she explained, or maybe warned, as they joined the other couples.  “I will try not to step on your feet.”

“I’m not worried.” She understood why Pauline liked him; he was congenial but respectful, keeping a proper distance between them as they spun.  “Skittery says you’re a good dancer.”

“You have known him a long time.  You believe everything he says?” she asked lightly.

Calvin chuckled. “Normally, no.  But about you?  Absolutely.”  

She ducked her head at that, embarrassed and pleased.  Calvin, too, was a good dancer, his carriage erect and every move graceful. For all that she’d only ever waltzed with two men, she would have known which was which if she’d been blindfolded: both were strong, with similar builds, and equally rhythmic; but Roman’s steps were looser, Calvin’s certainly closer to the prescribed form—Roman had said he liked to do things the “right way,” and that was how he danced.  She wondered if he danced differently with Pauline. There was no doubt that Pauline felt differently about dancing with him than she did.

“I haven’t said thanks for introducing Pauline and me yet,” he said.  “I’m glad you did.”

“Everything is…going well?”  

His ears were pink as he nodded.  “I’d say so.  Do you, ah, think she’d agree?”  It was strangely reassuring to see someone usually so poised look chagrined.

“Yes,” she said warmly, “very much.”

Relief and satisfaction alike were evident in his smile.  With that, their conversation dried up; the rest of the song they danced in silence.

After that the couples were reunited, all by mutual and unspoken agreement keeping mum about what they’d discussed.  Hana and Roman sat, holding hands and chatting quietly over the music, but Pauline and Calvin ventured out again immediately.  They danced four dances in a row without stopping; the last had been a high-stepping polka, and their cheeks were flushed.  “Ready for a break?” Calvin asked, nearly panting.

“Just one more, please!”  Her eyes sparkled, and a few tendrils had escaped her updo, tempting him to push them back, to touch her rosy cheek.  “Before too long we’ll have to go, and I don’t want to waste any time sitting around.” She tugged on his hand.  “Please, Calvin.”

He raised their hands to twirl her around, her skirt swirling and her giggles tumbling through the air.  Then he caught her with a hand on her waist and pulled her closer than he’d yet dared. “How could I say no to that?” he murmured, and her answering smile was radiant.

* * *

The crisp evening air was a welcome change after the dance hall’s heat.  Pauline didn’t have to fake the little shiver that coursed through her as they hurried homeward, even if she enjoyed the way Calvin drew her closer after offering her his coat.  They said quiet goodnights outside the Kollárs’ apartment before Hana and Roman went in and shut the door; and as soon as the footsteps outside had receded they popped their heads out again, leaning around the doorframe to peer down the hall.  At the Hermanns’ door Calvin had his back to them, with Pauline’s hair barely visible beyond.

“Did he kiss her yet?” Roman asked over her shoulder.

“Keep your voice down!”

“What’s he waitin’ for, an engraved invitation?”

She tilted her head up toward him, though her incredulous expression was lost on him, focused as he was on events down the hall.  “It took you much longer to kiss me,” she reminded him.  Dinners and desserts and walks in the park, until finally he’d kissed her in an alley.  The hallway of their building was probably a step up, though she wasn’t sure it would live up to Pauline’s romantic notions.

“Snoddy’s better at this kinda thing than me.”

“He’s a better kisser than you?” she giggled.

In response and retaliation he growled and kissed her neck, his mouth hot against her sensitive skin.  “ _Roman_ ,” she sighed, tipping her head back against his shoulder.  He snaked an arm around her, splayed his hand wide against her stomach to keep her close; she covered his hand with hers, intertwining their fingers, before turning in his embrace.  Their friends forgotten he pulled her inside, closing the door and kissing her against the wall next to it.

“They’re gone,” Pauline whispered, peering over his shoulder.  She lowered herself from her tiptoes, but neither of them dropped the other’s hand that she had been holding—for balance, of course.  Calvin shot a glance back down the hall.

“Should we tell them their spyin’ could use some work?” he asked.  “Tumbler and Les’d be happy to give them some tips.”

“I’d rather not encourage them.”  She shook her head, then went on more quietly, “Thank you for tonight.  I had a wonderful time.”  She looked up at him through her lashes; the weak light of the hall made his hair almost bronze, like a statue.  Half of her wanted him to kiss her, but half of her wanted him to wait.

“I did, too,” he said.  For a moment he gazed at her, every sweep of his eyes across her face nearly tangible, like the trail of a feather over her brows, her nose, her lips.  Pauline felt her breath shorten—hoped her father opened the door, hoped Calvin pulled her into his arms, closer even than when they’d danced.

“May I see you again?” he asked.  All she could do was nod, lips parted, eyes wide.  He raised their hands and pressed a kiss to the back of hers before wishing her goodnight.  But he still hadn’t let her hand go, and didn’t until she had opened the door and backed into the apartment and their fingers at last slid apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miláčku = sweetheart
> 
> JACK: MAKE IT OFFICIAL, PAULINE’S NEW NAME IS SHIV!!!!


	52. Sketches (17 October 1904)

“…’Cause Ma’d sent a telegram right away, with all o’ the details about when he was born an’ how big he was, an’ Jack sent pictures later on.”

That was an advantage of having an artist in the family.  She still hadn’t seen her own nephew, in person or in a picture; and while Jozef’s descriptions were rhapsodic, she would rather see Thomas (Tomáš, her parents were wont to call him, and she could hardly blame them) than read about him.  So she considered Les, beside whom she now strode in the direction of his apartment, lucky that he had at least a drawing.

Tumbler had passed on the news that Jack and Sarah’s baby had been born with considerably better cheer than he’d displayed about the subject some weeks ago.  It probably helped that they’d had a celebration at Duane Street in the family’s honor, with cookies, a toast with sarsaparilla, and “what the papes’d call ‘humorous speeches of goodwill,’” as Tumbler had recounted.  Roman had been wrong in his prediction, though: the baby was a boy, named Daniel John Kelly and generally called Danny.  It was a good American name, she thought, a good New York name.  A boy named Danny Kelly could grow up to be a policeman or a baseball player; Daniel Kelly could be a lawyer, Dan Kelly a farmer or farrier.  But Thomas Kollár was a good American name, too, and he could be Thomas or Tommy or Tom, and remain always Tomáš to his grandparents, and have just as many opportunities as Danny would.  Though their ever meeting was unlikely, she hoped the two boys would be friends if they did.

Les had offered to let her see the pictures of Danny (though uninvited Tumbler had declined all the same, having seen them before).  As for the new uncle, he seemed as pleased as a boy his age could be expected to about the birth.  Now, threading through sidewalk traffic with him, Hana realized that these days thinking of babies made her think of Roman.  She hoped Les wouldn’t notice her blush, and counted herself fortunate that there was no way he could know about the fluttering in her belly.  Of course she’d always liked babies: the smell of them, their wide yawns and tiny fingers.  She had taken an interest in the new additions to families around them, had as a girl prayed for a little sister to play with and take care of, had always been certain that one day she’d be a mother.  But never before had she thought that she might already have met her children’s father, never before had she wanted so badly to make them—

Maybe this had been a bad idea.  Any more thoughts along those lines and she’d be too mortified to go to confession.

If Les were anything other than oblivious to her struggle, he didn’t let on.  He chattered happily about school for the rest of the walk, into the Jacobs’ building and up to their apartment.  There he led her across the room to where the drawings were tacked neatly to the wall. 

“Jack says they’re not as good as he’d like, since he’s so busy.  But he says he figures he’ll get better at drawin’ Danny, an’ maybe by the time he’s grown up the kid’ll be able to sit still long enough for him to draw a good portrait.”  Les chuckled.  “The only way he’ll be able to sit still is if Danny takes after Sarah more than Jack.”

They were done in pencil; the more detailed one showed the baby sleeping—likely the only time his father had free to sit and draw—while another featured a gummy smile and half-lidded eyes.  In the first his lips were parted and lashes fanned against his round cheeks that she imagined were rosy and downy-soft.  His hair seemed dark, like Sarah’s, and she wondered what color his eyes were, what color they would be in time.  Whether or not the drawing was true to life she had no way of knowing; but there was no doubt in her mind that Jack loved the subject, had taken pains to render him as accurately as he could.  

The Vande Kerks had had portraits done of their girls, each in a white gown meticulously set down in oil; Mrs. Roth’s parents stared down disapprovingly over proceedings in the parlor.  For all the time and expense that had gone into those paintings, they were impersonal, the subjects stiff with hauteur, immobilized by the image of themselves they hoped to convey.  Danny looked pliant and natural and alive, and for that Hana knew which picture she’d rather have on her wall.

Leaning forward, she searched the little face for familiar features.  “Who do you think he looks like?”

Les’ eyebrows drew together; he squinted at the pictures before giving an apologetic shrug.  “Neither of ’em, really.  He just looks like a baby to me.  But Ma says he looks like Jack.” He shrugged again, only one shoulder this time. “I guess it wouldn’t be too bad to look like him.”  She bit her lip to hide a smile at Les’ studied offhand tone.  Tumbler could have pulled off the lie better, but only just; he idolized Jack just as much, but had fewer compunctions about lying than Les did.

“But not Sarah?  She is pretty.” 

He grimaced.  “If you say so,” he allowed, unwilling to admit such a thing about his sister.  “But Danny’s a boy, so it’d be better if he looked like his pop.”

“Maybe the next child will be a girl, and then she can look like Sarah.”  If she inherited her mother’s long lashes and long hair, Sarah’s gentle smile and Jack’s spirit, a little Kelly girl would be a handful.  Not that anyone expected Danny to be meek and mindful—and wouldn’t it be a surprise if he were?  The idea made her smile.

Before she left she shook his hand formally and congratulated him again.

“Thanks.”  He grinned before drawing himself up to his full height; when he wasn’t slouching he was taller than her and a little spindly, boyhood only just fading from his face.  “Need me to walk ya anywhere?” he asked.  It likely wasn’t up to Calvin’s standards, but the offer was politely made and kindly meant enough that his parents should be proud.  That was what parents hoped for, wasn’t it?: children who were healthy and happy and grew into adults who were kind and good, and started the cycle all over again.  

* * *

The roof was quiet as evening faded overhead. They sat close together on a ledge, facing west and, more importantly, with the ladder in full view; it was no good to be caught unawares should someone come up to fetch you.  Not that she and Roman had ever done anything inappropriate up here, of course; only it was easy sometimes to get a little carried away when he took advantage of a rare moment alone to whisper sweet things in her ear.  Now his fingers trailed lazily up and down her arm; she’d rested her head on his shoulder and twined her other arm around his waist, her hand tucked beneath his coat for warmth.  Under her palm his side rose and fell, breath steady and easy. 

He left off his humming to murmur, “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

A little girl with hair like his, unruly curls and all.  The four long years between Jozef’s birth and hers, the sister who had lived long enough to be baptized, the child who had not; the unnatural silence of the building as they carried Sophie Schmidt down the stairs, mother and newborn in the same narrow pine box.

All of that, sorrow and fear and hope alike, she kept to herself. He needn’t be burdened with such distant possibilities. She tipped her face into his shoulder for a moment before answering; when she did it was with a question of her own.  “Did you ever want to have children?”

In response he stopped breathing.  His head drooped, his gaze fixed inward; then he shook himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and exhaled a sigh.  She felt him relax, muscle by muscle, though his hand stayed still on her arm and he was silent for what seemed a long while.  “Not before,” he said eventually.  “Not when I was tryin’ to keep myself off the street, an’ Tumbler safe.  An’…”  Already quiet, his words now grew measured: “No girl I knew before would’ve been a good mother.”

Sarah was; he had to have known Sarah would be.  But she knew that Sarah was not the kind of girl he’d been talking about.  He meant other girls, ones who would remain unknown and unnumbered to her, young ladies with whom he’d kept company.  Her stomach clenched at the idea, throbbed with distaste and pity and envy all together at the thought that someone else had had what she couldn’t, had been closer to him than she was allowed to be.

“Lots o’ things are different now, though,” he went on.  No one would think her arrogant for considering herself one of those things. And though it may have been small of her to feel that way, it was some comfort to hear that her presence had had an effect on him.  “An’ now I think…maybe it might be okay.”

It was hardly an enthusiastic endorsement.  But for a young man who’d lost his family, grown up as well as he could manage on his own, it had to have been a leap of faith to get that far.  His head still hadn’t lifted; she rubbed her thumb over his ribs soothingly until he looked up at her.  It was hard to read his expression in the dim light, but his tone was earnest. 

“I’m not like you, Hana.  You’re good at this—takin’ care o’ people, helpin’ ’em out.  You’re gonna be a good mama someday.”  His smile was too fleeting.  “I don’t know how good a father somebody like me could be.”

Her thumb didn’t cease in its movement, now catching on his shirt, now smoothing it out.  “Jack is like you.  Don’t you think he will be a good father?”

He snorted quietly.  “You’ve met him.  What do you think?”

Whatever came to mind when Roman thought of Jack, she remembered the adoration in his eyes as he looked at Sarah, his hand on Tumbler’s shoulder as the younger boy did his best not to cry.  “I think,” she said, “that he will try.  If it is something important, he will not give up.”

Roman had been biting the inside of his cheek as she spoke; now he nodded. “So ya think there’s hope.”

For all of them. “Yes.  And time.”

“That’s good.”  He sighed again and his head sank onto hers, his cheek coming to rest on her hair.  “I don’t know about Cowboy, but I know I’m not ready for kids yet.  I still got some things to work out.”

“With Tumbler?”  She knew that adopting him and finding a decent place for the two of them to live had been in his plans for a while; she only hoped she hadn’t interfered with his plans, slowed his progress.

He nodded. “Yeah, an’ some other stuff, too.”

“Good stuff?”

“I hope so.” She let it go at that. He’d tell the rest when he was ready, and she was patient.

A little breeze picked up, bringing with it the smell of dark water from the river, and blowing right through her shawl. When she shivered he leaned away, twisting out of his coat and draping it around her shoulders.  She snuggled into it, pushing her arms through the sleeves and murmuring thanks, comforted by his warmth, his scent, his generosity.  Then it was her turn to wrap both arms around him so he wouldn’t get a chill.  He put his arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Are you warm enough?” she whispered.

“With you, always.”  They sat there in silence until the moon rose.


	53. Justification (19 October 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Blink's charming insights aside, why DO you like Hana, Skittery?**

 

A.

Look, I don’t think a fella should hafta explain why he likes someone, all right?  You guys didn’t grill Jack on why he likes Sarah, or why he hangs around [Crutchy](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/112181514787/meet-me-pals-crutchy)or [Dave](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/100280630577/meet-me-pals-david-jacobs) or [Les](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/100727779982/hey-jack-can-we-hear-a-bit-about-les-thanks), or [why he chose Nell](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/100057860372/nell-the-wonder-horse-part-one) outta all the horses in New York and Santa Fe.  (I mean, sure, he told ya—but that’s ‘cause he talks too much.)

And anyway, it don’t seem real hard to figure out.  Why d’ya think we got Little Italy and Chinatown and Kleindeutschland?  Folks stick with folks who understand ‘em.  And sure, me and Hana ain’t from the same place—but she understands more than the other girls ‘round here.

See, when Hana asks questions, she ain’t stickin’ her nose into other folks’ business.  She’s doin’ it ‘cause she’s curious and wants to understand, and chances are she knows somethin’ about the answer.

And when she doesn’t, when somethin’s different or new to her, she doesn’t let it go.  She likes learnin’ new stuff, and she’s game to try it, and she ain’t turned down meetin’ new folks yet, even after they were Jack and Crutchy and Spot.

But we don’t always gotta be goin’ out doin’ new things and meetin’ new folks.  She’s someone a fella can talk to, and talk with, and after spendin’ so long bein’ surrounded by two hundred hollerin’ boys—well, it’s nice havin’ somebody interested in  _you_  for once, that’s all.

I like that she learns new stuff, and I like that she keeps the old stuff around, too.  I like that she’s quiet and don’t go throwin’ herself at every fella in sight—but she ain’t a mouse, either.  I like that she’s close to her family, and cares about Tumbs, and—

–I mean, it’d be awful stupid to not like that she likes me, right?

…And, I mean…Blink ain’t wrong.


	54. Four Vignettes (28 October 1904)

i.

“ _Ďakujem_ ,” she said, taking the plate he handed her.  Roman sent her a wink in return.

“Ya know,” Tumbler—who had not shifted so much as a spoon to help clear up after dinner—informed them, “it don’t matter what language it’s in.  I can still tell when you’re bein’ lovey-dovey at each other.”

They exchanged a glance.  If he thought saying thank you was lovey-dovey, perhaps they needed to have a talk about basic etiquette.  Roman raised an eyebrow at Tumbler.  “Oh, yeah?” he challenged.

“Yeah.  You get all soft an’…gooey.”  He shook himself, then clutched his stomach.  “It’s makin’ me sick.”

Unfortunately for him, his grimace and convulsive shudder caused him to miss the glittering in Roman’s eyes.  She pressed her lips together to keep from smirking as Roman faced her.

“Hanka,” he murmured, taking her hand, “ _vieš, že je středa_.”

She didn’t have to fake her little sigh at the way he drew out the rolled R.  “ _Ja viem.  A zajtra je štvrtok_.”  She sidled closer to him, interlacing their fingers.

“ _Bude pršet zítra?_ ”  His voice was low; Tumbler couldn’t be blamed for thinking he was asking something far different.

“ _Dúfam, že ráno nebude prší_ ,” she said with a teasing lilt, tipping her head coquettishly to one side and blinking up at him.  “ _Potom nevadí_.”

Roman leaned close.  “ _Nerozumí nic.  To je škoda_.”  He stroked her cheek, then whispered, “ _Tak…téměř_.”

If their conversation hadn’t already chased him, gagging and whining, out of the kitchen, their kissing would have.

 

ii.

“Want one?”   

No matter that they’d had lunch not half an hour ago; Hana’s feet had slowed as they passed an apple cart.  The apples shone dully, yellowy-green and speckled with tiny rough spots.  In October the trees at her grandparents’ house would be groaning with fruit, littering the ground for children to pick up and goats to munch on.  All those apples for free, and she’d taken their abundance for granted.  What she wouldn’t give for the chance to fill her skirt with them now.

“It is alright.”  With one last longing glance she moved away from the cart, trusting that he’d follow.

When he fell back in beside her he was not empty-handed.  He polished the apple on his trousers before presenting it to her.  

“Roman…”

“I know, I know, I didn’t have to, I shouldn’t spend so much money on ya.”  The hand not holding the fruit waved away the objections he’d heard before.  “Just eat it, alright?  You know you want to.”

Surely even someone who wasn’t religious knew the story of Adam and Eve, the temptation and fall.  Then Eve had made the offer to Adam; now Roman shook the apple at her, a little impatient but mostly fond.  And he did tempt her, though gluttony was not usually the sin he inspired.  When she held out her hand he slapped the apple into her palm with a triumphant grin.

She took a bite; juice ran into her hand, where it would be sure to leave a sticky trail.  The apple was tart and cool, the taste bright on her tongue, more satisfying than she’d imagined.  Unconsciously she closed her eyes and sighed, chewing happily.

“Good?” he asked.  

Nodding, she offered it to him.  With eyes flashing dark he watched her lick the juice from her hand before crunching into the apple himself.  

“Not bad,” he said through his mouthful.  He handed it back and they resumed their walk.  After taking another bite she passed the apple to him again.  “You must really like me if you’re willin’ to share your apple with me.”

Unlike him, she swallowed before answering.  Eating an apple on the street was by no means ladylike, but she did have  _some_  decorum.  “Of course I like you,” she cooed, “you bought me an apple.”  She handed it back to him.

“Wish I’d known it was that easy months ago,” he said before taking a bite.

“And instead you had to be nice to me.”  She shook her head, plucking the apple from his hand.  “Poor boy.”

“I’ll show you ‘poor boy,’” he growled, grabbing for her.  She darted out of reach with a giggle; when he caught her up to her he snatched the apple from her grasp, then pressed a sticky kiss to the corner of her mouth.

 

iii.

“Betty Botter bought some butter…”

Hana repeated the tongue-twister line by line after Tumbler, with significantly less speed and more difficulty.  His face contorted with the effort of not laughing outright at her struggles; she chuckled herself as her tongue tripped over the last line.  Then, just to show off, he recited the entire thing again at a pace that rendered the words all but meaningless.  He topped the performance off with a bow.

“Very good,” she said, clapping, “but it is your turn now.”  She poked his arm as he resumed his seat on the step next to her.  “Try this:  _[Strč prst skrz krk](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FFile%3APrst_a_krk.ogg&t=YTBjMmVjY2M1OGRlNWYxZmJkMjJkNzNiMDljZGYyMTBkMzZlOTZlMixzdHFOS1J0ZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166894097815%2Ffour-vignettesmore-i-%C4%8Fakujem-she-said&m=1)_.”

His eyes narrowed.  “Those ain’t real words.”  If he thought that after hearing them, he’d never believe it if he saw them spelled out.  At least Slovak spelling made sense, unlike English.

“Just because you cannot say them does not mean they aren’t real words,” she goaded with a grin.

That got his attention and he puffed up, throwing his shoulders back.  “I can so.  Say it again,” he commanded, scrunching his eyes closed as he listened.  She complied as slowly as possible; he made a valiant effort, adding vowels left and right and ultimately shaking his head.  “Ya got me,” he admitted.  “Maybe Skitts can do it.”

It was in Roman’s native language, after all, so she had no doubt of it.  “Yes, I think he can.”

Tumbler drummed his heels against the step below for a minute, staring off into space.  Then, casually, he offered, “Snipes said sometimes people do somethin’ with their tongues when they’re kissin’.”

She choked out a terribly undignified noise, even worse than what she’d made when attempting the tongue-twister.  After clearing her throat she managed a noncommittal “Oh?”

Without looking at her Tumbler nodded.  “Don’t know how he’d know, though.  I doubt he’s kissin’ many girls.”

She seized the opportunity to shift the course of the conversation away from her own habits.  “What about you?”

“Me?”  He snorted, though his face was a delicate pink.  “What do I look like, Blink?”

Not at all, as the expression on his face at the idea of kissing was less enthusiastic than she imagined Blink’s would be.  She didn’t know this Snipes, but Kid Blink was the leader of Duane Street—while Mr. Kloppman and the Children’s Aid Society were, for official purposes, in charge of the lodginghouse and the boys under its roof, when it came to the everyday things the newsies there looked to each other for guidance.  “Did you ask him about it?”

“He said if I was old enough to be askin’ questions like that, then I’d find out on my own soon enough.”  Tumbler rolled his eyes.  “I don’t really care; I just wanna know if Snipes was tellin’ the truth or not.  ’Cause he lies a lot, so he could be makin’ it up, an’ I don’t wanna believe him an’ then look like a chump.”  

He turned to her then, looking very much the boy he still was.  One day soon he would be a handsome young man; girls would be paying attention to him and vice versa.  For now, though, he seemed happy enough to sit outside her building with her, doing silly things like reciting tongue-twisters, and she hoped he didn’t hurry too much to grow up.

“So…was he lyin’?”

The resurgence of her flush was likely all the response he needed.  Luckily, the reason she knew the answer (and did she ever know the answer) was making his way down the block, and she rose as he approached, dusting off her skirt and smiling down at Tumbler in mischief and relief.  “Ask your brother.”

 

iv.

“How’d you do that?”  He’d been staring again.  By now she thought she ought to be used to the way he often watched with fascination as she did the most ordinary tasks; it still made her feel like she was far more special than she really was.

Especially when she’d done something without thinking, something that was second nature.  She shrugged.  “It is easy.”  Hana reached up again and loosened the braid she’d just finished, leaving the hair hanging down her back.  She turned her back to him; then, over her shoulder, she said, “Watch,” dividing the hair into three and nimbly braiding it.  When she reached the bottom she tied it off.  “See?”

“Nah.”  He shook his head, face relaxing from the squint he’d been watching with.  “Can ya do it again?  But slower, this time.”

She narrowed her eyes at his blithe expression.  “Were you watching?”

“Yes, I was watchin’!  Your hands just moved too fast.  One more time?” he asked.  “Please?”  How he managed that guileless look, all wide eyes and faintly smiling lips, was a mystery.  He probably practiced it, knowing that it worked wonders against her willpower.

She slipped the tie from the end of the braid and undid her work for a second time, tugging her fingers through the length to make sure it was free of tangles.  Instead of redoing the braid herself, though, she scooted back.  “Come here,” she said.

Roman moved toward her, tucking one leg beneath the other as he turned toward her.  His knee was within a hair’s breadth of her rear, but she didn’t move.  “It is three strands,” she began, and waited until she felt his fingers moving gingerly through her hair as he separated it.  The care with which he worked was sweet, but he would be at it all afternoon if he carried on that way.  She turned her head just a bit—not enough to wrench the hair from his grasp, not even enough to see his face, but enough to reassure him.

“You won’t hurt me.”

His fingers stilled.  “Are you sure?”

“I promise.  I have a tough head.”  He chuckled quietly behind her.  “And you will be softer with me than Mama is.”

“Always,” he murmured; then his hands were moving again, still careful but more businesslike now.  “Alright, three strands.  Now what?”

She slipped into Slovak to explain how he should cross the strands, left over center and then right over center and then left over center again.  “How?  I only got two hands,” he muttered.  She left it to him to figure out, letting her eyes slip closed as he worked.  It had been a long time since anyone other than Mama had touched her hair, and no one had ever been so gentle, so nearly reverent with it.  Any tension in her neck and shoulders fled until she felt more relaxed than she could ever remember.

All too soon for her liking he was done.  He tightened the lace around the end before flopping the completed braid over her shoulder for her inspection.  “How’s that?”

It was loose and lopsided; she’d been able to tell it would be as he worked.  But he’d tried, and for a first go, it was none too shabby.  She ran her fingers lightly down the length of the braid, all the way to the tiny bow he’d tied.  Then, without warning, she slumped back against him, her head thudding against his collarbone.  As he let out a startled “Oof” she turned her head, nestling her cheek against his chest.  When he’d recovered one of his arms wrapped around her waist; the other reached up to wind the end of the braid around his finger.  

“It is perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their conversation:  
> Ya know, it’s Wednesday.  
> I know. And tomorrow is Thursday.  
> Is it gonna rain tomorrow?  
> I hope it isn’t going to rain in the morning. Later, I don’t mind.  
> He doesn’t understand anything. It’s a pity. Well…almost.


	55. Moonlight and Roses (29 October 1904)

He doffed his hat as the clerks streamed out of the shop’s back door.  The young ladies chattered brightly among themselves as they left work, more than a few heads turning his way.  Caught in the tide Pauline almost passed him by; at his call of “Miss Hermann!” she nudged her way to him, ignoring the titters and teasing that followed her.  

“Mr. Angier.  What a surprise.”

The smile that had been merely polite to her coworkers now broadened.  “A pleasant one, I hope,” he said. 

She arched an eyebrow.  “Thus far.”

“May I walk you home?”

In response she slid her arm through his.  “Only if we take the long way,” she added; with a satisfied grin he replaced his cap and they set off.

Calvin was a fine man, she’d learned.  Unlike many her age, he didn’t just talk about himself; he asked questions, about her day and her childhood and her family, and actually listened to her answers.  (In fact, she sometimes wondered if she talked too much—or maybe he wasn’t talking enough.)  He was courteous and intelligent.  After one meeting her mother declared him a young man with a bright future, a suitable match for her daughter.  Pauline was even starting to like his freckles.  What more could she ask for? 

Well, there was one little thing.

The long way was made longer by their leisurely pace.  They inquired about each other’s day, chatted about goings-on in the city; she laughed and fluttered her eyelashes and did everything short of throwing herself into his arms.  He wasn’t oblivious to her maneuvers—his muscles flexed under her touch; his eyes strayed to her—but he made no move, and she was running out of acceptable ways to show her interest.

As they rounded a corner his steps slowed.  “Calvin?”  He nodded toward a boy, barely waist-high, on the opposite side of the street; the child held a paper aloft and yelled hoarsely.  Calvin was already fishing in his pocket as they crossed to the young newsie.

“Evenin’  _Sun_ , sir?  Miss?”  The boy proffered the paper to each of them in turn, his grimy face hopeful. 

“Just one, please,” Calvin said with a nod.  He tucked the paper under his free arm.  The coin he slipped the child winked silver, not copper, in the slanting evening light.  “Keep the change.”

The child beamed.  “Thank you, mister.”

Could a man be  _too_  virtuous?

When they’d resumed their usual route, Pauline looked from the paper peeking out from his far side up at his stupidly noble profile.  “Do you miss it?” she asked.

“Sellin’ papes?  Not much.”

“Andy says it’s easy.  Though,” she mused, “he could just be trying to impress me.”

“Who wouldn’t try to impress you?”  They shared a smile.  “But it is easy for him. A cute kid who can holler and doesn’t mind makin’ up headlines can clean up.  But when you’re older, less cute—”

“Anyone else I’d think was fishing for a compliment there,” she teased, with a sway of her hips that bumped his.  He looked heavenward for a moment, as if praying for patience or fortitude, though she could swear he was trying his best not to smile.

“—And less keen on lyin’, it’s harder.”

“So you never…stretched the facts to sell your newspapers?  It seems a common enough tactic.”  And one that she’d more or less resorted to herself on occasion, if truth be told; with some of her customers, it was rather easier than being entirely honest, and more certain of a sale.  But she’d never told a lie that could hurt anyone.

“Not if I could help it.  But being with the boys, the way it was when we were all together: that I miss.”

“You’re modest, truthful, generous, loyal…  Do you have  _any_  vices?”  She stroked his arm with her free hand. 

“Sure.  I smoke; I have a drink with friends sometimes; I gamble once in a while, but only on cards; I skip church more often than I should…”  There wasn’t a trace of pride in his voice; on the contrary, he seemed a little disappointed in himself.  A trickle of guilt flowed through her.

“None of that sounds very bad,” she reassured him.

“Good,” he said.  “I’m not out to be bad.”

“Not even a little?”  She blinked slowly up at him, her lips parted ever so slightly. 

Their footsteps stilled, and he turned to face her.  One corner of his mouth lifted; that was a good sign, or at least she hoped it was.  Dryly he asked, “Is there something you want, Pauline?”

That he could be so cool when talking of want was simply not fair.  Had her signals not been clear?  In her previous experience she ought to be having to discourage him at this point, not encourage him.  What was she doing wrong?  She fidgeted with the cuff of her glove until, unnerved by his amusement and her evident failure, she blurted, “Is there a reason you haven’t kissed me yet?”

A beat passed; then, carefully neutral, he said, “A couple, actually.”

Pauline’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened.  “Oh, no!  Is it my breath?  Or my teeth?  I know that one is a little crooked, but—”

“No!” he chuckled.  He pulled her hand away, held it gently.  “It’s none of that.  Your breath is just as sweet as the rest of you, an’ your crooked tooth is cute.”  At her scowl he assumed a more sober expression.  “But you’re only just eighteen—”

“Eighteen, not a child.”  Though of course when she said it so petulantly it rather proved the opposite.  

“—an’ I don’t want to hurry you into anything.”  He squeezed her hand until she met his eyes, saw the concern there.

That it was logical and honorable made it no less frustrating.  Searching his face, she worried her lip with her teeth; his eyes stayed steadily on hers, which meant he couldn’t fail to notice the way her attention kept returning to his mouth.  And he wasn’t backing away, hadn’t released her hand, wasn’t rushing off to see her home and then flee into the evening.  There was yet hope.  

Slowly she asked, “You can’t be hurrying me if I ask for it, can you?”

“I guess not,” he agreed, though reluctantly.  “But, Paulie—”

Feeling a bit helpless, she giggled.  “That’s much better than Shiv.”  Calvin went pink as she acknowledged the slip.  It was flattering, really, that he would call her by a nickname; it meant that he’d accepted her, was comfortable with her.  Her confidence rose again, and she checked her mirth.  “Forgive me.  I don’t want you to be bad, really,” she said; “I don’t want you to be anything other than what you are.  But you needn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

He pulled her closer to the wall, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic.  “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you,” he explained quietly.  “Of course I do.  But I want to do it right.”  He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, and then stroked her cheek.  His words were as tender as his touch.  “You deserve moonlight and roses.” 

Her knees went watery; a thousand butterflies set off in her stomach.  “Oh, Calvin,” she sighed, wanting nothing more than to collapse into him and feel his arms encircle her.  Her impatience dissolved as she gazed up at him.

“You’re not makin’ this easy.”  His reprimand was transformed by the rasp of his voice; it echoed the feeling of his calloused fingers on her skin, and a frisson snaked through her.  The hand left her face, then landed on her shoulder.  Now he was watching her, his eyes tracing her features.

“Let’s make a deal,” she suggested.  “You take care of the roses and I’ll arrange the moonlight.  How’s that sound?”

“When?”

The moon was past full, but she had no inclination to wait another month.  And though she had no control over whether or not the skies were clear—it might be too much to hope for this late in October—an idea had begun to form in her mind.  “Tonight?”  She suddenly felt breathless.

“Alright.”  He nodded deliberately, a smile forming.  Without another word they resumed walking, her arm snug through his.

When his knock sounded at the door later that evening, she rushed to open it before her parents could respond.  His cap was already off, his hands behind his back.  She ushered him in and stood shifting from foot to foot as he greeted Father and Mother.  At the first opportunity she cut in, “We’re just going up to the roof for a moment.”

Her mother opened her mouth and found herself on the receiving end of a glare of fearsome magnitude.  A light dawned in her eyes as they moved between the two; then, displaying a heretofore unknown restraint for which Pauline would have to thank her later, she merely said, “Wear a coat.”

“Of course,” Pauline said, all dignity.  Then, to Calvin, she said, “Wait here…three minutes and then come up.”  

Along with her coat she snatched up the sack she’d prepared earlier.  It was no cinch to make a graceful exit out of the window and onto the fire escape but she did her best, hurrying up the stairs and hoping the evening was too cool for anyone else to be there.

She shrugged into her coat and set to work.  From the sack she drew a circle of parchment paper stretched over an embroidery hoop, and with a bit of black thread suspended it from the clothesline.  Behind it she hooked a cheap tin-and-glass lantern over the nail in the post the line hung from.  She lit the candle inside and stepped back.  If you squinted it made a passable moon, and it would have to do, since Mother Nature was not obliging this evening.

Having something to work on in the interim had kept her from going mad.  What if, after all this, it was disappointing?  What if arranging it like a doctor’s appointment leached all of the romance from the moment?  What if she was a terrible kisser? or what if he was?  The questions returned full force as she waited, clutching her coat around her.  And the most awful one that sprang to her mind was what if he just didn’t come up, and left her standing there with her sad little paper moon?

“Honestly, Pauline, don’t be a ninny,” she scolded herself.  The moon was quite clever, and Calvin wouldn’t abandon her like that.  That was the whole point: he didn’t want to do anything that might hurt her.  He was noble and trustworthy, and he had beautiful cheekbones and he smelled like pine and tobacco, and…

And there he was, climbing over the ledge with one hand still tucked behind his back.

“The moon, as promised,” she announced, gesturing to the mock-up.  Grinning, he went to take a closer look at it.

“I gotta admit, I wasn’t sure how you’d pull it off,” he said, shaking his head.  “I should’ve known better.”  

“Yes, you should.”

He dropped to one knee at her feet, hand over his heart in a melodramatic air.  “Can you ever forgive me?” he pleaded, his tone piteous as he reached out for her.  Perhaps he didn’t lie like his fellow newsies did, but he certainly knew how to play a scene.

She took his hand.  “I suppose I could,” she allowed, “ _if_  you uphold your end of the bargain.”

He finally withdrew the other hand from behind his back, producing the bouquet he’d been concealing.  “Roses, as promised.”

They were pink and white, she was fairly sure, already blossomed wide.  She felt as if she couldn’t stop smiling even if she wanted to, raising the flowers to her face and sniffing their delicate fragrance.  Without releasing her hand he stood and dusted off the knee of his trousers.  She murmured her thanks more to the roses than to him, but the squeeze of his hand told her he’d heard.

“May I?”

Though unsure what he had in mind she nodded.  After eyeing the blooms critically for a moment he pulled one from the bouquet; it was the least open and thus, she thought, the youngest.  A flick of a penknife trimmed the stem.  Then, with the greatest care, he tucked it just behind her ear.  “Beautiful,” he said quietly.  

The light from the little moon glowed on his face.  She suddenly realized how close they were, with his hand cupping her jaw, thumb skimming her cheek and fingers curled close to where her pulse raced.  Her gaze dropped, down past his vest to the bouquet in her hand, and for the first time it struck her the effort they’d both put into this: making the moon, finding the flowers.  She had been a fool to doubt his feelings, even for a moment.  She raised her eyes again and saw, through the fringe of her lashes, his expression serene.

“Moonlight,” she said, and, “roses.  What more could anyone ask for?”

“Not a thing,” he agreed, just before his lips brushed hers, sweet and warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: PAULINE AND SNODDY KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MOON!


	56. Rainfall (1 November 1904)

The downpour that had been threatening all day broke over them as they made their way home.  It was much too cool to tarry in the rain, and besides, this was no gentle spring shower: drops shook the awnings and overhangs that they raced between, trying to stay out of the deluge as much as possible.  By the time they reached her building they were both soaked and shivering.

“ _Ahojte_ ,” Hana called, pushing open the door, only to be met with silence.  The empty apartment and the breach of propriety it posed only gave her a moment’s pause.  She could not, and would not, send him out again in that rain, no matter how much he claimed to like the weather; neither could she let him sit around in those wet clothes.  He’d catch his death, and then where would she be?  Mama would approve—or at least she could not  _disapprove_ ; so Hana told him to wait there for a minute as she went inside.

He remained in the hallway, dripping and trying not to visibly shiver, while she rushed into the bedroom to strip off her wet clothes.  She pulled an old dress on before rifling through Tatko’s things for a clean shirt and pants.  Tatko was shorter and broader than Roman, so nothing would fit well; if only they had some of Jozef’s old things…  But there was no time to dwell on that.  She laid the clothes and a thick, warm blanket on the bed before swinging a quilt around her shoulders and snatching up another blanket.

“Come in,” she called, pointing him to the bedroom and spreading the blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace.  As he changed she stoked up the fire, then hurried into the kitchen to pour two small glasses of  _slivovica_.  Though she disliked the taste she knew the drink would warm her, and help ward off sickness.  She carried the glasses into the living room as Roman shuffled out, likewise swathed in a blanket, curling his toes into the thin carpet.

She joined him where he stood in front of the fire and handed him one of the glasses.  “ _Na zdravie_.”

“ _Na zdraví_ ,” he replied automatically, looking from the fire to lock eyes with her as they touched glasses lightly.  Then, with a curious frown, he wondered, “You’re drinkin’?”  He’d never seen her drink any alcohol before; it was a rare occurrence, that was true.

“It will help me not be cold.”  She screwed up her face and poured the alcohol into her mouth, hoping it would bypass her tastebuds.  It didn’t, of course, but that hardly mattered when the brandy’s effect was so immediate; the burn radiated from her throat into her chest, her stomach.  She touched her belly, as if the heat within might warm her chilled fingers.

“Can’t argue with that.”  He didn’t so much as grimace when he swallowed, instead looking satisfied as he handed her the empty glass. 

She put the glasses aside and together they settled onto the blanket in front of the fire, as near as they could get without singeing anything.  Roman crossed his legs, keeping his bare feet tucked under the blanket, and stretched his hands toward the flames.  Next to him Hana began pulling the pins from her hair, hoping to free it from its bun so it might dry.  Her hands slowed as it came to her that none of the Misses Vande Kerk would be caught dead with her hair anything less than perfectly coiffed in front of a man, even her father; and, closer to home, Pauline would never let her hair down before a suitor.  It was decidedly improper, showed far too much familiarity.  But this was not just some man; this was Roman.  He ate dinner with her family and washed the dishes afterward.  He seemed content just to be with her, whether they were reading or dancing or sitting in silence.  And she’d never felt as close to anyone as she did to him.  “ _Moja láska_ ,” she murmured, half to herself.

He glanced over at her, face rosy with the heat or a blush or both.  “You talkin’ to me?”

With a smile she pulled the rest of the pins free and shook out her hair, fanning it around her shoulders.  “Who else would I call  _moja láska, a môj miláčik?_ ”  She leaned over to press a lingering kiss to his cheek; then, nuzzling his ear, she murmured, “ _Môj zlatý?  Môj jediný?_ ”

A little sigh escaped him.  “Ya can’t keep bein’ so sweet to me,” he warned, though without any real fervor. 

“And why not?”  She kissed the hinge of his jaw, felt him swallow hard. 

“Because I might get the wrong idea.”

“That I love you?”  Her lips trailed down to the pulse in his neck.  Maybe it was the  _slivovica_  that emboldened her, or the memory of the shirt plastered to his skin, or being alone with him; most likely it was just him.  “That I want…”  But emboldened or not she was still Hana, and had precious little experience saying such things aloud.  She closed her eyes—it was easier to admit these things that way—and managed, “Want to be near you?”

He groaned, and for a moment she thought he might push her away.  Instead he turned toward her, wound his hands in her damp hair and kissed her hungrily, open-mouthed and reckless.  The sharp taste of the alcohol was on his tongue, and hers; her hand found its way to his chest, where her fingers curled into his borrowed shirt.  All at once she couldn’t be close enough, wanted nothing more than to be pressed against him.  But her attempts to tug him toward her were to no avail, and she refused to stop kissing to demand he move.  Instead she rose on her knees to wrap her free arm around him, nearly losing her balance and tumbling into him, half hoping she would knock him onto his back and go sprawling on top of him.  The blanket slipped from her shoulders; she paid it no mind.

He broke the kiss, a steadying hand on her shoulder.  “Whoa, hey.”  Over the pounding of her heart she heard him struggle to catch his breath.  “Easy there,  _miláčku_.”

She let him guide her back to sit, let him hitch the blanket up around her shoulders again.  Their knees pressed together through four layers of fabric.  He brushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear and then took her hands, tucking them between his to keep warm—or possibly to keep her out of trouble.  “Y’alright?” he asked gently.

The heat in her abdomen was neither entirely smothered nor satiated.  Though she nodded as meekly as she could manage, her response was tempered with a “But…”

“Yeah?”

“My lips are still cold.”

Roman chuckled.  “You been takin’ lessons from Blink?” he joked.  She couldn’t help smiling at his happiness, his hair standing on end both from his efforts to dry it and her hands running through it, the tenderness with which his hands cradled hers.  “Now that you mention it, mine are a little cold, too.”  He grinned boyishly, mischievously.  “Maybe we oughta put ’em together.”

“What a good idea.  It’s lucky you are so clever.”

“Smart aleck,” he muttered against her mouth, his own lips curved up in a smile.

Now they kissed as if they had all the time in the world; these were deliberate, thorough kisses, though their hands stayed safely anchored between them, and neither moved from a seated position.  And where she’d said sweet things before, now it was his turn.

“ _Jsi tak krásná_.”  Some small, still-functioning part of her mind protested, reminding her that she knew she wasn’t beautiful, not truly, not in anyone’s eyes but his.  Strangely, though, she couldn’t bring herself to give voice to the disagreement. 

He sounded different in Czech: less rough than in English, less guarded.  The sound of it alone made her heart ache.  “ _Mám rád tvoje oči_ ,” he told her, and placed a whisper of a kiss on each of her eyelids.  “ _A tvoje vlasy, a tvoje ruce_.”  He bent over their hands, his dark head obscuring his actions, and she gasped at the kiss pressed first to one fingertip, then its neighbor.  When all ten had been attended to he kissed her palms.  Then, straightening slightly, he lifted her hands, looping them around his neck.  And when he rested his forehead against hers it felt as though he’d submitted to her completely, and trusted her entirely.  Rather than powerful, she felt humbled.

“ _Ale nejkrásnější a nejlepší je tvůj srdce_.”  His hand slipped beneath the blanket to alight a little higher than her heart, but not so distant that he could fail to feel her pulse.  His thumb stroked the dip of her collarbone, and he looked at her with eyes so adoring that they left her breathless. 

There were no words left for her to say, nothing she could do but run her fingers through his hair and kiss him again and again.  Before long his other hand had found its way to her waist; and soon after that a series of maneuvers she couldn’t quite remember making landed her sideways in his lap.  How could anyone still yearn for more when she already had so much?  When they broke apart to catch their breath she tucked her head beneath his chin. 

“We’re gonna have to get up soon,” he sighed.  “Your folks’ll kill me if they walk in an’ see this, me ruinin’ their daughter.”  He was right; they couldn’t have much time left.  And still she was reluctant to let him go, and tightened her arms around him. 

“You have already ruined me.”  It wasn’t in the way he meant, she knew full well, but the changes he’d made in her could never be undone. 

“What if they say I can’t see you anymore, huh?  What’ll I do then?”  He buried his nose in her hair, all loose and wanton.  “You’re not the only one that’s ruined.”

Before her parents returned she should wash the glasses, brush her hair, stoke the fire, put the blankets away, straighten her undoubtedly dishelved dress.  But she sat a moment longer with her cheek against his chest, finally warm all through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahojte = hi (plural)
> 
> slivovica = plum brandy
> 
> Na zdravie/Na zdraví = Cheers (literally “to health”)
> 
> moja láska, a môj miláčik = my love, and my sweetheart
> 
> Môj zlatý = My dear (zlatý literally means “golden,” so it implies preciousness)
> 
> Môj jediný = My only
> 
> miláčku = sweetheart
> 
> Jsi tak krásná = You are so beautiful
> 
> Mám rád tvoje oči…A tvoje vlasy, a tvoje ruce = I like/love your eyes…and your hair, and your hands
> 
> Ale nejkrásnější a nejlepší je tvůj srdce = But the most beautiful and best is your heart
> 
> Cultural note: Hana puts a blanket on the floor not for any salacious reasons, but because Slovaks believe that if you sit on the ground or floor without some kind of barrier between you and it, then you will get sick and/or be rendered infertile. Slovaks tend toward hypochondria…but slivovica and garlic can cure anything.
> 
> JACK: #not safe for Pauline’s delicate sensibilities 
> 
> YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS!
> 
> (Pauline, don’t blame me if ya read this an’ your sensibilities get scandalized. You’ve been warned.)


	57. Till & Cook (25 November 1904)

The idea had come to her a few months ago, not long after their visit to Duane Street.  After making a few inquiries and an appointment, she’d been putting pennies by for it since then.  She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to pull this last part off without Calvin’s help, though. 

Hana stood close by the building, out of the way of passers-by.  She’d thought about stopping in across the road to visit with Pauline at work as she waited, but she didn’t want to miss their arrival.  Thank goodness the weather was dry today; rain or snow would have complicated matters.  They should be here any minute now, hopefully with the smiling faces and amenable dispositions of which they were capable. 

Those hopes were dimmed by the bickering that reached her ears almost before she saw them. 

“Is this how you’re gonna act in front o’ Hana?” Calvin demanded.

Roman’s stubborn tone was tinged with defensiveness.  “How I act in front o’ her is between her an’ me.”

“Pal,” Calvin snorted, “if you believe that, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

He didn’t answer, instead hauling him onto the sidewalk with little finesse.  He looked slightly grim, his smile tight as he greeted her.  “Good afternoon, Hana.”

“Good afternoon.”  She spared him a brief smile before inspecting his handiwork.  She could see that beneath his too-thin winter coat Roman was dressed in his best, as requested: the shirt that had been new just a few months ago was recently laundered, the suit pressed.  Though he wore his cap, the hair underneath had been carefully combed; she would not hesitate to touch it up if need be.  At some point in their journey here Calvin had gotten Roman to close his eyes.  They were now clamped shut, and one of his hands rested on Tumbler’s shoulder.  

“This is it?  We went in circles to get  _here_?” the boy asked.  He turned his gaze from the building to Calvin, gracing him with an incredulous look as Roman turned his head this way and that as if trying to work out where they’d stopped.

“Looks like it.  Now keep your mouth shut,” Calvin advised.  His tone was far shorter than she’d yet heard it; they must have been trying his patience.

Roman swung his head in Calvin’s direction, his expression sardonic even if temporarily sightless.  “Can I open my eyes now, or am I not allowed to see my girl?”

Judging by the way Calvin glowered and raised his fist, Roman was lucky he’d be able to open his eyes at all.  To save them all from Calvin’s undoubtedly blistering response she answered instead, telling him, “Not yet.”  Stepping close to Roman, she took the hand from Tumbler’s shoulder and kissed it.  His frown lightened, and his hand squeezed hers.  “Thank you, Calvin,” she said.  She owed him now, and no small favor. 

“You’re welcome.  Good luck.”  After a short nod he wasted no time in leaving.

She might still need it.  Roman had been in one of his moods in the week leading up to the appointment, sullen and sad and thinking those feelings made him weak and hating himself all the more for it.  The weather, all razor-edged winds and oppressive gray skies, surely hadn’t helped his mood any.  It seemed to be lifting, though; he’d been a little friendlier the last time she saw him, two days ago.  While she hoped the surprise would cheer him up more, she knew it was just as likely that it would upset him all over again.  It was so hard sometimes to foretell what reaction might be in store.  She took a deep breath, ran her thumb over the back of his hand, and raised her head. 

“Come along,” she said, and they stepped into the building, Tumbler leading and Roman trailing her.  The ground floor was a gallery of sorts, displaying Till & Cook’s wares and offering frames and albums.  A display case held a selection of boxy little Brownie cameras; the camera itself cost a dollar, as did getting the film developed.  She would rather pay a professional this time around, though.  She’d made the appointment down here, with a handsome woman who appeared as a model in several of the pictures on display.  The receptionist now checked an appointment book and then with a nod directed them to the stairs at the back of the shop.  There Hana paused to tell him they were going up, as if the racket Tumbler made weren’t warning enough; then she guided one of Roman’s hands to the banister and the other to her waist—simply because if he were a step below, her shoulder would be too high for him to reach, of course.  

Fortunately they only had to climb to the second floor.  Tumbler waited outside the door there, nearly dancing in impatience, and now she took a good look at him, too.  His face was clean and pink, and he was wearing clothes she’d never seen him in before, trousers a bit too long and a jacket that had been very neatly patched in one place.  But his cap was the same as always—his hair would be a mess when he took it off, but that would lend some accuracy to the final product—as were the well-worn boots.  He pulled at the collar of his shirt under her inspection. 

“They’re from Les,” he said, fidgeting.  “We went over there an’ Snoddy explained the whole thing to Mrs. Jacobs, an’ she said  _of course_  I could borrow ’em, an’ wasn’t it just  _so sweet_  of you to do this.”  He rolled his eyes at such feminine sentiment.  Now she owed Mrs. Jacobs, too. 

“You look very nice,” Hana said.  Next to her Roman cocked his head as he listened; maybe he’d already figured out where they were, but he kept his eyes closed anyway.  At her nod Tumbler opened the door and they entered the studio. 

She lifted the hand from her shoulder and looked up at Roman.  “You can open your eyes,” she said. 

He did, with a mutter of “Finally,” and peered around the room they stood in.  Around its perimeter were ranged chairs, some ornate and others plain, and a velveteen-upholstered settee, its woodwork gilded; fake vines spilled from a box, while another held tufts of silk roses.  Pedestals of varying heights littered one corner, like the ruins of some forgotten civilization.  A large backdrop, mistily mottled in shades of blue, dominated one wall, and before the backdrop sat a single chair.  Above it all a skylight admitted hazy light into the room.  Tumbler began poking around the props almost immediately as Hana turned to Roman, his eyes taking in the camera on its wooden stand.  The photographer himself—Mr. Cook, the receptionist had said, as she’d penciled Hana’s name in the ledger—appeared then from a room in the back.  He looked at the three of them, paused, and then said quietly, “Whenever you’re ready.”  After that he began tinkering with the camera, keeping an eye on Tumbler as he did.

When Roman’s survey of the room ended at her she smiled encouragingly.  “Now there will be a photograph of you where you don’t look like an idiot.”

The tension in his shoulders lessened and his lips twitched involuntarily, but he refused to give in so easily.  “This’s gotta be too expensive,” he argued, his voice low.  “It’s not worth it, just for a picture of my mug.”

While a single photograph mounted on card cost less than four bits, the receptionist had managed to convince her that a dozen for two dollars would be the better deal.  “Plenty for the family and friends,” she’d said, and Hana hadn’t had the heart to set her straight.  But this way Roman and Tumbler could each have one, and her, and Mr. Kloppman, and maybe Jack and Sarah; and there would be some left over in case anyone’s original needed to be replaced.  Two dollars was nothing to scoff at, but it would be worth it for him to have a photograph with his brother.

And of course he ought to know that she was fond of his mug.  To remind him of that fact she grasped his chin and kissed the place where his dimple should be.  “It is your present for Christmas.  And your birthday this year, since I missed it,” she said, releasing him.  They’d known each other then, but somehow his birthday had passed by without her knowledge.  Now she was determined to make up for it. 

“It’s a little early for a Christmas present.”

“It must be now so they will be ready in time.”

Roman crossed his arms mulishly, so she put her hands on his forearms and gave him a determined smile.  “Don’t you want a photograph of you and Tumbler?” she cajoled, hoping that he did.  Mama would love to have a photograph of her two children; she had already suggested to Jozef that he send them a picture of Thomas.  More importantly, Hana doubted Roman had anything like this from his original family, anything to remind him of his parents and siblings.  He would now, or she would die trying to provide it.

“What about you?” he countered.  “You should be in it, too.”

It had crossed her mind that it might be nice to have a picture of the two of them, Roman’s hand on her shoulder the way Jozef’s rested on Zuzana’s in the portrait taken after their wedding.  Nearly as quickly she’d dismissed the thought.  This was not about her; it was about the brothers.  (Even if the scheme wasn’t entirely altruistic, since Hana had grown rather intent on the idea of having a picture of her fellow.)  All the same she touched her hair self-consciously, shaking her head as she did.  “Not this time.”  

He grunted.  Apparently the suggestion of a future photograph of them did little to mollify him.  “Listen, Hana,” he said, taking a step backward, “I appreciate the thought, but…”

Hana did not listen.  She took hold of his elbow to tow him to the chair; at her gentle push he collapsed into it in an ungainly sprawl of limbs.  He stared up at her, dark-eyed and brooding, and made no move to make himself more presentable.  Carefully but firmly she tugged him upright, bent his legs, placed his hands in his lap.  He didn’t help, but he didn’t resist, either, and his eyes stayed on her as she worked.  When she was satisfied with his posture she stood aside to leave the rest up to Mr. Cook, who had his work cut out for him. 

From beside the camera he studied the scene before him.  Then, with the deliberate movements one might make when approaching an unfamiliar and snarling dog, he moved to stand in front of Roman.  “Sir, if you could raise your chin a bit?”

She held her breath. 

And he did.  Maybe it was the shock of being addressed as “sir”; maybe it was the realization that this was happening, whether he liked it or not, and that he shouldn’t waste Hana’s money in ruining the photograph.  Whatever the case he did as he was asked, throwing his shoulders back and moving his arms to the armrests.  He still didn’t look happy, but at least he was cooperating. 

Hana drifted further back as Mr. Cook waved Tumbler into place next to the chair.  “Can ya make it look like I punched Skitts’ head off?” he asked as he sauntered over.  These occasional outbursts of cheerful bloodthirstiness always caused her mild alarm.  “Or maybe like my head’s off an’ I’m holdin’ it under my arm?  I saw a picture like that once.”  He looped an arm at his side in demonstration.

The photographer seemed nonplussed.  “I’m not sure that’s what your…”  He glanced from Tumbler to Hana and back again, clearly hesitant.  “What the young lady wants,” he finished.  The pause, the uncertainty made her feel small for a moment, as if she were not good enough to be related to the boys.  She supposed she should just be thankful he hadn’t decided that she was Tumbler’s mother. 

“Now hold that pose,” he instructed, hurrying to the camera—though however quickly he moved, it wouldn’t be enough to outpace Tumbler’s fidgeting.  As Mr. Cook ducked under the hood and made some adjustments, Hana ventured a request:

“Oh, smile, please.”

Tumbler obliged immediately, gracing them with a cheeky grin.  Roman, on the other hand, continued to stare at the camera with a blank expression.  He wasn’t frowning; but he certainly didn’t look anything near happy to be there, and she fought the urge to mutter something unkind under her breath.  This was not the image of him she wanted captured, and if he were thinking rightly, he’d agree.  She tapped her foot, considering, aware that Mr. Cook was waiting.  Berating Roman definitely wouldn’t make him smile, but she had another tactic in mind.

“Roman,” she called.  When his gaze shifted to her she smiled impishly.  No one else would understand, but she still pitched her voice lower to tell him, “ _Si najkrajší muž_.”

He blushed violently, the look in his eyes one that meant he wanted to bolt up from the chair and sweep her into his arms.  At least he wasn’t scowling anymore.  

“ _Tak, usmej sa_ ,” she finished.  Even as he rolled his eyes he obeyed, smiling as if he couldn’t help himself.  That was much better—but now Tumbler had adopted a familiar expression of disgust.  She raised her eyebrows and nodded at him until he too smiled.

“Very good.  Look this way, please,” Mr. Cook directed; but she had a feeling that the portrait would reveal that Roman’s attention was not focused on the lens. 

And after that there was a quiet click and it was over.  It was a little anticlimactic, all of that effort and expense for a split second; but there was still the wait, the anticipation of seeing both the portrait itself and the look on Roman’s face when he saw his improved photograph.  That made up for it, she supposed.  And until then she would keep the picture in her mind of the two of them, Tumbler leaning ever so slightly against the chair, his arm around Roman’s shoulders, the both of them looking healthy and happy.  Maybe their smiles weren’t the broadest or most genuine she’d ever seen them wear, but she was satisfied all the same.

They wished Mr. Cook a good afternoon and filed out, buttoning their coats as they descended.  Downstairs the receptionist confirmed that the cards would be ready in a few weeks.  “Would you like them gift-wrapped, miss?” she asked.  Hana elbowed his side hard as Roman snorted, shaking her head at the same time.

Once they were outside he threw his arms around her waist and hauled her off of her feet in a tight hug.  Her heart leapt as he held her close, his face nestled into her hair; she wrapped her arms around his neck, only loosening her embrace when he put her down again.  Now that the portrait was done she was free to muss his hair if she wanted; but he looked so nice that it seemed a shame to ruin it, so she swept a lock back from his forehead with careful fingers.  His eyes were warm; his hands slipped a little further down from her waist.  “You’re somethin’ else, ya know that,  _miláčku_?” he murmured. 

“I know.”

He kissed her quick and fierce.  Then his expression sobered as he held her at arm’s length.  “I know I’ve been a bum.  I’m sorry.”  His eyes searched hers.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve good things,” she assured him, as she had so many times before.  Though he looked unconvinced, he still nodded.  “Will you apologize to Calvin, too?” she asked. 

“He’s been puttin’ up with me for years.  He should be used to it.”  At her furrowed brow he added, “But I’ll buy him a drink to say sorry.”  Hopefully he’d have better ideas for how she could thank both Calvin and Mrs. Jacobs.

“And,” he went on, reaching up to cup her cheeks, “I wanna buy one for the most thoughtful, most generous girl in all o’ New York.  So what do ya say?  Can I buy ya a hot chocolate?”

Blushing at his compliments, she nodded eagerly.  This time his kiss was sweet, though just as brief as before.  But later, she was sure, there would be longer kisses, warm and lingering and tasting of chocolate, and she was willing to wait for those.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si najkrajší muž = You are the most handsome man.
> 
> Tak, usmej sa = So smile.
> 
> I wasn’t able to find anything on the turnaround time for when a customer might expect to get their photos back after they were shot, but it’s got to be a few weeks. 
> 
> Eastman Kodak’s Brownie camera was introduced in 1900, and that helped make photography more accessible to the masses, which also helped drive down the demand for professional portraits. But though less popular, some studios did hang about; this article talks about how people collected cabinet cards and their predecessors, cartes de visite, of actors and other celebrities. So now please imagine Irving Hall selling cabinet cards of Medda in a variety of poses and costumes.
> 
> There isn’t a shot in which the whole of the sign is clearly visible, but it’s possible to piece together the studio's name from a few different scenes. Till & Cook advertise their portraiture services, but they also offer daguerreotypes, which would have been, like, super outmoded by 1904. Wikipedia says of the format that “surviving examples reliably dated to between the 1860s and the 1960s are now exceedingly rare.”
> 
> $2 in 1904 would be around $54 in 2016. It’s a chunk of change, but she wouldn’t be spending so much if she hadn’t missed his birthday.
> 
> JACK: TUMBLER’S A MAN AFTER MY OWN HEART


	58. Andy (30 November 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Dear Tumbler, I think, that today should be your name day, so I wish you all the best.  Would you like to come to dinner with us tonight?  Or if you have plans already we could meet somewhere like Mrs. Procházka’s so I can give you your present.  It is just small, but I hope that you will like it.  From your friend Hana.**

 

A.

Wow!  You got me a present?!  For real?!

And okay.  I don’t got any plans.  You want Skitts to come too?  I’ll run over to Tibby’s and ask him if ya do.

Your friend,

Tumbler.


	59. Home (6 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**_Ahoj,_ Roman.  I wonder, would you ever want to leave New York?  My brother says that there are Czech settlements further west, in places like Chicago and Nebraska and Texas.  They would not be just like home, but it might be nice to be with people who spoke your language and shared your culture.  Me, I think I have come far enough already; you might want something different, something…more than what is here.**

 

A.

SKITTERY: Ahoj, Hana. So, maybe you thought I forgot about this one.

Well, I didn’t.

It’s just that…well, sometimes I don’t wanna think about certain stuff.

But there’s some stuff you got the right to know.

…Anyway, the answer’s no. I got my job in New York, and Tumbs, and I know what stuff’s like here.  It ain’t always great, but I know what to expect.  Chargin’ off into the unknown is great for [Jack](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/tagged/santa-fe-stories) and [Dave](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/tagged/Dave-Goes-to-Poland) and stuff, but if I’m gettin’ along where I am, it’d be stupid to risk messin’ that up.

And, miláčku, I got you.  And you’re an awful good reason to stay.

But ya know how I told ya [me and Miloš and Máša and Jonáš got sent to an orphanage](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/157613093922/skittery-if-you-speak-czech-does-that-mean-your)?  They ain’t here anymore.  The C.A.S. sent ‘em west on the orphan train.

And nobody’d tell me where they went, but I usedta like thinkin‘ they’d ended up somewhere with Czech people; somewhere they’d still hear the old language and felt a little bit like they were home. I hope they stayed together, at least.

But you make New York feel like home, so that’s somethin‘ too.


	60. Vianoce (9 December 1904)

“ _Hanka, poď sem!  Ježiško bol tu_.”

Two weeks before Christmas was far too early for baby Jesus to be delivering presents; yet there her parents were, with eager smiles and bright eyes more suited to Christmas Eve.  Hana tightened the shawl around her shoulders and took the empty space between Tatko and Mama on the settee.  It was a snug fit for the three of them, but warm and cozy.  Without a word of explanation Tatko handed her an envelope.

The letter she extracted was in Jozef’s familiar handwriting.

_Dear little sister,_

_Zuzana and Thomas and I would like to invite you to come visit us for Christmas.  Don’t worry about bringing any gifts; just having you here will be enough.  We are eager for you to meet your nephew, and Zuzka wants to meet her sister-in-law, even though I have told her you are a_ _huncút_.  
  
We look forward to seeing you soon.  
  
Your brother,  
Joži

Tucked behind the letter was a train ticket to Pittsburgh.  She stared at it with mouth open for a moment; then she reread the letter, rubbing her thumb over the ticket all the while.

The Roths had already gone out of town, visiting friends in Boston for the month; the housekeeper had told Hana that as long as the place was clean when they returned, she needn’t come in as often.  And the Vande Kerks were preparing for a visit to Saratoga Springs that would have them out of the city through the new year.  But that didn’t mean she could shirk her duties—

“Mr. Howard has approved your absence,” Tatko said.

Nine years had passed since she’d seen her brother.  Nine years in which she hadn’t heard him tease her, hadn’t seen him peer over the top of his glasses at her; nine years of only letters that did not show how he’d grown, where he lived.  She hadn’t yet met her sister-in-law, nor her nephew, only four months old.  Her heart soared at the thought of seeing them all, of holding the baby, of listening to Jozef speak.

But seeing them would mean leaving Roman.  She didn’t want to leave him, not at Christmas, not after he’d been so sweet about staying in New York for her—at least in part.  Even if the trip were only ten days, it was longer than she’d gone without seeing him in months.  She’d been looking forward to spending the holiday with him, and Tumbler; the younger boy would no doubt be fascinated by their traditions, especially the carp they’d keep in a tub until the 24th, when it would become dinner.  Hana had been hoping that they would come along to midnight Mass that night.  She’d pictured walking home with Roman afterward, huddled close to his side, their steps quiet in the snowy streets and her heart full of the wonder of the nativity and the contentment of being with him.  Maybe, just maybe, her parents could be persuaded to let the boys stay the night—how much better she would sleep knowing they were nearby, safe and warm.  And then on Christmas day they would go along the hall to the Hermanns’, where Tumbler would distract Pauline while Hana and Roman lingered under the mistletoe that was always hung over the door.  It was to be their first Christmas together, and now they would not be together for it.

But they had celebrated so many Christmases without Joži.  And Roman, no matter how dear he was to her, was not yet part of her family; Roman was not bound to her by blood, by ancestry, by decades.  She had never missed Roman so acutely that it felt a part of her was gone, and hoped she never would.  Now in her faintly trembling hands was the ticket that would take her to see Jozef.  She knew just how much it had cost her parents, knew that they would go without much celebrating so that she could have joy.  Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude and a little sorrow, spilling down her cheeks as her chin wobbled. 

Mama hugged her, and Tatko put his arm around them both, and they held her like they never wanted to let go.

* * *

Roman’s cheeks and the tip of his nose were shining pink with the cold as they walked.  She ought to have gotten him a scarf for Christmas, she thought distractedly, worrying her lip, or a thicker coat.  Now she wouldn’t be there to make sure he stayed warm.  

“Have ya ever been ice skating?” he asked.  “I was thinkin’ we could—”

“I am going to Pittsburgh for Christmas,” she blurted.

As he stopped short the surprise that flashed across his face was unmistakable, as was the hurt that followed on its heels.  “Huh,” he said eventually.  Then, sounding strangled and trying to hide it, he asked, “Gonna visit your brother?”

“Yes!”  The relief she felt at his quick comprehension was short-lived, and she rushed to explain.  “It was a surprise—I did not know until yesterday.  Jozef and Zuzana paid for my ticket there, as my present, and Mama and Tatko bought the ticket back, and Tatko already asked Mr. Howard if I can go, so I will not miss any work and be fired,” she rambled.

He chewed his lip, hands twitching at his sides until he crossed his arms tightly.  “I did not know,” she repeated helplessly.

The eyes that had been darting over her shoulders finally settled on her face and he sighed.  “But ya want to go.  You’re gonna go.”  It was not a question.  There never had been a question that she would go.

“It has been so many years since I have seen Jozef…”

“I know the feeling.”

She bit back an apology for something she hadn’t done wrong.  “I will not be gone long,” she said instead.

The longing on his face gnawed at her resolution.  “How long, exactly?”

“Just ten days.  I leave on the 19th, and will be back the 29th.”  They’d have New Year’s Eve together, at least.

“You’re goin’ alone?  Your folks are okay with that?”  

If they had any worries on that point, they hadn’t shared them with her.  For her part, Hana wasn’t entirely sure she was okay with it.  She made her way around the city on her own with no trouble, but she’d had years to learn what neighborhoods to avoid and not to be alone after dark.  Sadly, it was not unusual to hear of mugging and assaults—even the sharpest hatpin would be little deterrent against the most determined or the most desperate of New York’s criminals.  She had no idea what Pittsburgh would look like, nor the stations where she’d need to change trains; she wasn’t sure what would happen if she missed a connection.  The longest journey she’d taken before now had been with both of her parents, and the idea of striking out on her own would be unthinkable were it not for the people waiting for her at the other end.  And none of them, Jozef included, would let her go if they really thought anything bad would happen.  “They are not worried.”  She raised her chin a little.  “I’m a capable young woman.”

His lips quirked up at one corner for an instant before his mouth tightened again.  “An’ you already got a ticket back?” he asked.  When she nodded, he blew out a breath.  “That’s…that’s good.”

Even though he was still guarded, she couldn’t help but smile.  “I’ve got an awful good reason to come back,”  she said, moving closer, reaching out for him.

While he didn’t return the smile, some of the fear ebbed from his features.  And he didn’t pull away when she took his hand.  “That’s good,” he said again, barely above a whisper.  His hand tightened around hers.  After a moment he joked wanly, “Guess it’s a good thing you already got me a present, huh?”

“Yes.”  She nodded, the guilt fading from her stomach.  “That way you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Roman raised a gloved hand to stroke her cheek lightly.  “You know that ain’t true,” he rebuked her, his voice as gentle as his touch.  “You know I’ll miss you every day.”

She didn’t answer, only covered his hand with hers and nuzzled into his glove.  He pressed his lips to her forehead for a moment; then he slipped his arm around her shoulders and they turned toward home. 

* * *

They’d said their goodbyes the night before, after a visit to Pauline’s apartment.  The younger girl had no qualms about Hana’s trip, and her enthusiasm was heartening; with a grin Pauline had given her a stout and wickedly sharp hatpin, and then embraced her cheerily.  “I’ll miss you, but I know you’re going to have a wonderful time,” she said, “and I can’t wait to hear all about it when you get back.”  Her eyes sparkled as she gave Hana one last squeeze.

“Have a safe trip,” Calvin added warmly.

In the Kollárs’ apartment Roman had put his arms around her and held her tight, no doubt thinking of cars slipping off icy rails and train robberies and any number of untold dangers that lurked in the streets of Pittsburgh; and though she was fairly confident no ill would befall her, she couldn’t blame him for being worried.  When he’d kissed her, tender and chaste, she’d thought her heart would break.

All the same, she couldn’t pretend to be surprised when he showed up at the station.  He managed a subdued smile as he shook Tatko’s hand and wished Mama a good morning before turning his attention to the train.  It seemed massive, so much heavier than the street cars; smoke and steam rose from the engine, mingling with their ascendant breaths.  At the sight of all of those wheels, the track disappearing out of the station, the bustle of her fellow passengers and railroad employees, a thrill of equal parts trepidation and excitement ran up her spine. 

It wouldn’t do to hold him as she wanted to, to stroke his hair and bury her face in his chest; they were in public, and her parents were standing nearby.  That was something he and Mama had in common, at least: they were both anxious over her leaving.  

A few evenings ago Pauline had told her about a story in which a young lady had given a lock of her hair to her gentleman friend.  It was a bit old-fashioned, Pauline admitted, but then sighed that it was terribly romantic to give away a piece of yourself, even if it was just hair.  Later, when Hana sat staring at the impulsively-snipped lock in the palm of her hand, she just felt foolish.  Still, since it had been done, she might as well give it to him.  And he did love her hair, she thought with no little satisfaction.  So she tied the lock with a scrap of ribbon before folding it into a square of paper and writing his name on the outside. 

Now she placed one hand over his heart while the other slipped the little envelope into his pocket.  She’d while away some of her long journey imagining his reaction when he found it later.  Then she took his hand.  “I love you.  I will be back soon.”

“Love you too,” he mumbled.  “Be careful, okay?”

“And you.”  Rising on her tiptoes, her hand tightening on his lapel, she kissed him on the cheek; then she couldn’t stop herself from giving him a quick peck on the lips as well.  After that it was nearly time to board, so she reluctantly freed her hand from his grip to hug her parents, soothing Mama’s fretful murmurs, muffling an exasperated sigh as Tatko slipped coins into her hand.  Then she was on the train, wiping condensation from the window with her sleeve to wave, pressing her fingers to her lips and then the glass as the train moved away from them.

* * *

_Dear Roman,_

_There are trees in America!  They keep them in Pennsylvania.  Even in winter there is still some green.  It is very nice to see, though it all went fast outside the window.  The train rattles like the street car but much more.  I think, that I like traveling by ship better than by rail.  I should not be so tired just from sitting on trains all day, but I am._

_It was not hard to change trains, and Jozef met me at the station in Pittsburgh.  He looks like a grown-up now.  Before he always looked kind of old and wise with his glasses, but now he is a real man.  I felt like I did not know him at first.  The whole trip I was wondering will he recognize me, will he think I am a nice girl.  I was shy when I saw him, because I wanted to hug him but I did not know if he would like that.  Then he laughed and called me kuriatko the way he used to and we hugged and I could not speak because I was so happy._

_Zuzana is very beautiful, like how her picture looks.  She speaks good English, almost as good as Pauline, but her family is from eastern Slovakia so their Slovak is not so good.  She is funny, even though I don’t understand all of her jokes in English (they speak English at home more than we do).  She likes to tease Jozef and I think this is good, so he does not feel too clever or important all the time._

_Oh, Roman, Thomas is so wonderful.  He has reddish hair like Zuzana’s, and the most beautiful dark blue eyes.  I hope they stay this color forever.  He is bigger than I thought he would be but not too big, and soft, and he smells sweet, like rohlíčky.  He does not cry when I hold him, because he loves his Teta Hanka.  He is the most wonderful baby in the world.  Even you would say so.  I wish Mama and Tatko could see him._

_I am happy to be here, at last with Jozef and Zuzana and Thomas.  But already I miss you._

_So všetkou mojou láskou,_  
_Hana_

“Who are you writing to, Hana?” Zuzana wondered.  Thomas was asleep on her shoulder, wrapped in a soft blanket.  She hadn’t hesitated to offer stationery and stamps when Hana had mentioned wanting to send a letter; it was kind of her, and kinder still that she’d allowed her to write without interruption.  Hana had just meant to write a note to her parents saying she’d arrived and found Jozef well, and had done so; but then she thought about how the whole way there she’d wanted to tell Roman things she noticed, to talk with him about the other passengers and the landscapes the train traversed.  Since she couldn’t speak with him, she decided to do the next best thing. Just a few lines, she thought, so he wouldn’t worry, so he’d know she was thinking of him.  

“My…”  That pause said it all, as the sparkle in Zuzana’s eyes attested.  Her hesitation was only because she felt shy talking about such things in front of her brother, and the sister-in-law she hardly knew; and it seemed strange having to say it aloud when everyone back home took their relationship as a solid fact.  So no one should think her embarrassed of him Hana lifted her chin and declared, “My sweetheart, Roman,” pride and a hint of defiance coloring her tone. 

Jozef glanced up from his papers.  Frowning over his glasses he said, “You are too young to have a sweetheart.”  It didn’t seem like he was joking, though his expression was more perplexed than disapproving.

Zuzana made a soft  _tch_ , careful not to wake her son.  “She’s a grown woman, Jozef, and you’re not her father.”

He seized upon his wife’s suggestion to ask, “What does Tatko think of your young man?”, looking every inch the schoolteacher quizzing a pupil.  But unlike his students, Hana had no reason to be cowed.  

Even so, Zuzana saved her from having to reply.  “My dear, you are brilliant, but that is the wrong question,” she said, an eyebrow arched.  (Hana had already resolved to be more sympathetic to Tumbler when she returned; the first time she’d heard Zuzana call Jozef “darling” Hana had felt flustered, and incredulous, and possibly even a bit nauseous.)  Now her sister-in-law turned to Hana and gave her a conspiratorial smirk.  “The right question is, is he handsome?”

* * *

_Dear Roman,_  

_When Jozef heard that I am writing in English he offered to check my letters over.  What a kind and thoughtful brother.  I told him that I am not one of his students, and that he teaches mathematics, and that you will understand perfectly well no matter what mistakes I make._

_It is nice that there are so many Slovaks here.  Zuzana says she made a list of the most eligible bachelors to introduce me to but now she sees that I do not need to meet any other young men.  Jozef says that though there are one-tenth as many people in Pittsburgh as in New York, there are more Slovaks here than anywhere else in America.  There are three Slovak Catholic parishes here, and some Lutheran ones, and clubs, and schools.  I have heard more people speaking Slovak than since we left there.  I like to hear it, but it is also strange.  It is like I forgot how many of us there are in the world.  I’m not explaining well, so I will tell you what I mean when I get home._

Earlier that day they’d bundled up and Jozef had taken her on a tour of the city, or at least some of it.  Though the school where he taught was closed for the holiday, he took her in and showed her his classroom.  She had never thought it odd that her bookish, clever brother had become a teacher, and seeing him in his classroom, shuffling through a stack of workbooks on his desk as she gazed around, it seemed even more right.  Observing his reaction to what was undoubtedly an incorrect answer, glasses slipping down his nose and red pencil poised to attack, she giggled.

His head rose.  “What?”

“I’m happy you are not my teacher,” she teased.  Then, more seriously, she added, “You would be disappointed in me.”

He shook his head.  “Of course I wouldn’t,” he said, and for a moment her heart was warmed.  Then he went on, “You would do fine in my class.  You were always good with numbers,” and that was her brother: pragmatic as ever.

_I asumed Pittsburgh would be more like New York—it is also a big city full of people hard at work.  But it is not so similar as I expected.  Pittsburgh seems closer to the countryside than New York is, and it has more hills.  There are many people but not so many, or so close together as we are in Manhattan.  And there is a river here, but it is not an island, and there is no smell of the sea.  I miss that.  When I am home I must go down to the Battery.  I hope, that you will come with me._

_Jozef took me to see a grand library that was built for the city by a very rich man called Andrew Carnegie.  It was beautiful inside, with rows of polished tables and rooms full of more books than I think I have ever seen.  Jozef told me for a long time about Mr. Carnegie and how he immigrated from Scotland and became rich working in steel.  This is not typical for most steel workers, and certainly not the Slovak ones.  He got so much money that he had to start to give it away, and he builds libraries because education is important.  You can see, why Jozef likes this.  I also think it is a nice idea, though if I had that much money I might build more houses for poor people instead._

_I tried to tell Joži about the strike the way Crutchy told it to me, but I’m sure I forgot things.  He said they heard about it here, and many of the bosses at the mines and steel mills are not happy with the idea of people going on strike.  But he says Joseph Pulitzer is a cunning businessman and you should be proud of what you achieved. (instead of spelling this for me he gave me a dictionary so I could spell it right.  When I asked why it was spelled this way he could not say.)  I am proud of you for winning the strike, and for being a good brother, and for having a steady job.  Jozef would like to meet you.  I told him it would be best if he brought Zuzana and Thomas to New York because then Mama and Tatko could see him and meet the others, and he could also meet you.  He would like to come, I think, but it is hard to say if there will be enough money for the trip any time soon.  So we will see._  

_Zuzana and I made perník na figurky yesterday.  I’m afraid she is not a very good cook—but she does have a baby to look after now.  Hopefully Mama has made some and shared with you._

_There may be many Slovaks in Pittsburgh but there are not so many Bohemians, and not my favorite one._  

_Ever yours (Zuzana says this is a lovely way to close a letter, and I think so too),  
Hana_

* * *

The parish of St. Gabriel Archangel, being a little less than two years old, did not have its own sanctuary.  Instead they met in a local hall, and tonight, as midnight approached, it was packed full of congregants in their finery.  Jozef was respectable in his dark suit, and would have seemed too serious if not for his expectant, almost childlike smile, and the poinsettia pinned to his coat.  Zuzana looked like an angel, her smooth cheeks flushed and her hair gleaming like silk, adorned with a pair of gorgeous combs set with green gems.  “They’re just glass,” she’d confided as she secured them in place, “but they look real enough, and that’s what matters.”  Next to her Hana knew she looked plain, but it didn’t bother her now the way it would have before.  It helped to have someone waiting who had eyes only for her; and of course the Holy Family weren’t concerned about the cost of her dress. 

The hall itself was decorated for the holy days with swathes of greenery and dozens of candles, with the Advent wreath standing next to the pulpit.  Hana sat between Jozef and a black-kerchiefed old woman, who’d smiled and wished her “ _Veselé Vianoce_ ” in a raspy voice when she took her seat.  Zuzana and Thomas sat on her brother’s other side and Zuzana’s parents, with whom they’d had dinner earlier, beyond her.  And even in a makeshift church, even far from Mama and Tatko, the words of the angel were still the same: “ _Nebojte sa_ ,” do not be afraid; and then the chorus of praise and peace proclaiming “ _Sláva Bohu na výsostiach a na zemi pokoj ľuďom dobrej vôle_.”  No matter where she was, that much was the same.  That much would never change.

When they’d returned from the service and Thomas had been tucked into his crib, she leaned close to the dimmed lamp to write. 

_Najdrahší Roman_ , 

_Prajem Ťa Veselé Vianoce!  Chybáš mi veľmi a milujem ťa._

_Please wish Tumbler a merry Christmas for me, and the same to Pauline if you see her._

_Tvoja Hana_   

Before she folded it she pressed a kiss to the page and murmured a prayer for him.

* * *

It was snowing as they walked back to the apartment building, their breath rising in puffs before them.  They’d been visiting some of Zuzana and Jozef’s friends, where they’d eaten leftovers and drunk Tokaj and sung old songs.  Conversations in Slovak and English had intersected and overlapped, and Hana’s head had whirled even as she laughed.  Though she enjoyed herself, she felt unmoored—not uncomfortable exactly, nor unwelcome, but out of place nonetheless.

“Peter Opálka looked rather interested in you,” Zuzana pointed out, a teasing lilt in her voice.  She held Jozef’s arm as they navigated the accumulating slush.  

“Oh?”  Hana feigned ignorance, though in truth she had noticed the young man’s attention.  She hoped she hadn’t done anything to encourage him; she’d only meant to be polite, but maybe the sweet wine had made her more than cordial.  Hopefully this Peter wasn’t one of the “eligible bachelors” her sister-in-law had had in mind for her.  Hana wondered vaguely if her mother had suggested to Zuzana that she introduce her to other men; on the train it had occurred to her that perhaps one of her parents’ motives for spending so much money had been to put some distance between her and Roman, in the hopes that they might grow apart.  But that was a mean little thought, one that made a mockery of what they’d given up to buy her ticket.  Now, as Zuzana opened her mouth to reply, Jozef tugged her closer, whispering in her ear.  She smiled tenderly and kept quiet, and Hana, relieved, let out a muted sigh.

Beneath Hana’s happiness there was something else—or perhaps there was not.  Perhaps what was not there was the point. 

A few hours later a pitiful mewling woke her.  She hadn’t been sleeping as soundly as usual in the unfamiliar bed, so it was little surprise that the baby’s noise reached her.  As quietly as she could she made her way to Thomas’ crib at his parents’ bedside; neither had yet woken, though his cries were growing louder.  It was instinct to comfort him, and if it let Jozef and Zuzana rest, all the better.  She lifted him into her arms and shuffled out of the bedroom, hoping he wasn’t hungry.  That was a problem she could not solve. 

“ _Čo, čo, čo, zlatíčko?_ ” she whispered.  “ _Si hladný?_ ”  She offered him a knuckle to suck on but he turned his head, still whimpering.  He wasn’t wet, either, for which she was thankful; she didn’t cherish the idea of changing a diaper in the dark.  Hana paced the room, bouncing slightly as she walked, half-singing and half-murmuring a lullaby.  It was no wonder every afternoon found Zuzana yawning and exhausted; an infant’s schedule was demanding and unpredictable, and Hana was glad she didn’t have to care for one before and after working all day.    

When Zuzana emerged, bleary-eyed and cheek creased from the pillow, Thomas was still fussing.  Hana handed him over readily and watched as Zuzana kissed the baby’s head and settled into the rocking chair, unbuttoning her nightgown.  With her gaze averted Hana returned to bed, where the rhythm of the rocking chair made her eyelids grow heavy.  Within minutes she was asleep.

* * *

Suddenly it was time to leave and Jozef was hounding her around the apartment, making sure she hadn’t left anything vital behind.  “You’re sure you don’t mind if I don’t go?” Zuzana asked again, patting Thomas’ back.  Her eyes were shadowed with dark smudges, and she hadn’t yet brushed her hair; Thomas, on the other hand, was gurgling contentedly.

“It’s okay,” she said, holding out her arms.  Zuzana passed over the baby and then all but collapsed into a chair.  Hana pressed her face gently against the soft skin of Thomas’ temple, breathing in his scent, memorizing the feel of his weight in her arms.  She smiled and kissed him and whispered to him in Slovak to be a good boy, to be healthy and happy and to mind his parents.  Then, blinking against tears, she kissed him again before passing him back to Zuzana.

The older woman looked surprised for a moment when Hana kissed her cheek as well, but then her expression softened.  “Thank you,” Hana said quietly.

“I’m so glad you came,” she answered, touching Hana’s cheek.  “I’m so glad to meet you at last.  You’re always welcome with us.”  Her smile was bittersweet.  “ _Šťastnú cestu_.”

Hana dipped her head and turned away before the tears could escape.  Jozef stood by the door, her bag in hand; she looked around the room once more before stepping out.

When they were safely on their way to the station—Jozef had arranged for a cab to take them, which made Hana feel extravagant—he said, “So soon you have to leave.  The days have flown by, haven’t they?”  She nodded, not trusting her voice.  “I suppose you are eager to get back and see Mama and Tatko and Roman.”  There was neither teasing nor admonition in his tone.

There was no need to deny it; her stomach filled with a flight of butterflies at the mention of his name, and she longed to see him, to hear his voice and feel his arms around her.  All the same she wondered aloud, “You will not ask if I am too young to be in love, or if he really cares for me?”

He sighed.  “I was wrong to say that before.  You’re not too young at all.  You’re not a silly chick anymore, Hanka, and I know you.  Of course you love him—you love everyone.  But when you talk about him, your face goes alight.”  His expression solemn he studied her for a moment, as if she were an equation to be solved; she didn’t flinch under his scrutiny but met his eyes, the same hazel as hers.  “And if he’s as smart as you say, he must care for you.”  Then the mask of seriousness cracked and he was as she remembered, bright-eyed and teasing, “Though he probably doesn’t know what a  _huncút_ you are _._ ”  In return she stuck out her tongue, and their laughter filled the cab.

And then they were at the station and she was standing outside another train, waiting to say goodbye to him.  This time as he smiled at her she knew it wouldn’t be another nine years until she saw him again.  The thought made her smile, despite the tears tracking down her cheeks.

“Come visit soon, please,” she said.  “Mama and Tatko miss you, and want to meet your family.”

“We will.”  He nodded, his own eyes watery, and hugged her impulsively.  “Be safe,  _kuriatko_.”

“And you.”

Releasing her he said, "I’ll expect more frequent letters, now that I know how much you like to write them.“  He chuckled at her mock glare; but, as they’d done when they were children half a world away, they held hands until she had to board.  From her seat she stared at the figure on the platform, his encouraging smile and waving hand blurred by tears.  She waved, too, until he disappeared from sight; then she subsided into the seat, her face in her hands and her shoulders shaking. 

* * *

_Dear Roman,_

_I am sad to leave Jozef and Zuzana and Thomas, and I am happy to come home.  It was interesting to see someplace new, and I am proud that I could travel so far by myself.  Now I know more things than I did before I left, even things about me.  I dont want Jozef and his family to leave Pittsburgh because they are happy here, but I wish it was closer to New York._

_I missed you very much, but when you read this we will be together again, and I will be able to tell you in person—_

_I love you.  
Hana_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanka, poď sem! Ježiško bol tu = Hanka, come here! Little baby Jesus [who delivers presents in Slovakia] was here.
> 
> huncút = rascal, scallywag
> 
> kuriatko = chick (baby chicken)
> 
> rohlíčky = vanilla crescent cookies
> 
> Teta = Aunt
> 
> So všetkou mojou láskou = With all my love
> 
> perník na figurky = gingerbread cookies
> 
> Nebojte sa = Do not be afraid (Luke 2:10)
> 
> Sláva Bohu na výsostiach a na zemi pokoj ľuďom dobrej vole = Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men (Luke 2:14)
> 
> Najdrahší = Dearest
> 
> Prajem Ťa Veselé Vianoce! Chybáš mi veľmi a milujem ťa. = I wish you a merry Christmas! I miss you a lot and I love you.
> 
> Tvoja = Your
> 
> Čo, čo, čo, zlatíčko?… Si hladný? = What, what, what, little dear/sweetheart?…Are you hungry?
> 
> Šťastnú cestu = pleasant travels
> 
> Christmas was on a Sunday in 1904.
> 
> These days Amtrak can get you from Penn Station to Pittsburgh in nine hours and seven minutes with no transfers for $79 (or $2.92 in 1904 dollars).
> 
> It doesn’t appear that in the early 1900s there was a direct train from NYC to Pittsburgh that didn’t require changing trains. Hana may have taken the Pennsylvania Railroad, on which she would have changed at Philadelphia, Harrisburg, and Altoona (per an 1899 map); or perhaps she may have traveled via Baltimore and DC on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, changing at Baltimore.
> 
> On AskNYPL Matthew J. Boylan answers a question about cross-country train travel in 1912. He writes that the 20th Century Limited traveled from Chicago to Boston in 21 hours and 20 minutes. 982.6 miles in 21.33 hours gives a speed of 46 miles per hour, at which speed the 369.6 miles from NYC to Pittsburgh would take 8 hours. However, the Kollárs wouldn’t have been able to afford a ticket on a limited, so Hana would have gone on a much slower train. Another answer says that around WWI most passenger trains traveled just under 20mph. At that speed Hana’s journey would take about 18.5 hours. So her travel time is somewhere between 8 and 19 hours, and most likely on the higher end of that range. 
> 
> The general cost for rail travel was about 2 cents per mile.
> 
> Pauline read about giving away a lock of one’s hair in Sense and Sensibility. She’s happy to pass on the idea to someone else, since her own relationship isn’t quite so intimate yet.
> 
> The parish of St. Gabriel Archangel, on the North Side, was established in 1903. The parish held services in different halls until a church building was completed in 1906.
> 
> Santa Claus doesn’t bring presents in SK; little baby Jesus (Ježiško) does. (Well, okay, Svätý Mikuláš (St. Nicholas) does visit, but that’s on Dec. 6.) 
> 
> It’s a stereotype among Slovaks, or at least those from central SK, that people from eastern Slovakia talk funny. Zuzana’s family is from the east; add to that the fact that she’s spoken English for longer than Hana and Jozef have, and Hana is almost certainly going to think her sister-in-law sounds a little strange in Slovak.
> 
> For Christmas dinner in Slovakia many families have carp and potato salad. And the carp often lives in the family’s bathtub in the days leading up to Christmas. December 24th is when Slovaks exchange presents, though the 25th is also part of the Christmas holiday.
> 
> Mining has been an industry in SK for centuries. In eastern Slovakia, iron is mined, so much so that US Steel has a plant outside Košice. Central Slovakia has deposits of gold and silver; Kremnica is home to a mint that’s been in operation since the 14th century, and Banská Štiavnica has a 255-year-old technical university related to mining and processing. There are also deposits of other minerals and precious stones like opals around the country. So when Slovaks began to move to the States, many of them wanted to go places where their existing technical skills would be in demand, and they ended up mining coal in Pennsylvania and Ohio and West Virginia, and processing iron and working in mills. Today Pittsburgh still has the highest concentration of Americans of Slovak descent in the country.
> 
> JACK: IT’S BEGINNIN’ TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS STORY SEASON!!!!!!


	61. Portraits (11 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**How'd your portrait turn out, boys?  Do you look like real muckity-mucks?**

 

A.

TUMBLER: Well…it’s  _okay._

I mean, my eyes ain’t shut and Skitts is smilin’, so I guess Hana likes it.  But I was hopin’ it’d be better–like if Skitts was holdin’ my head on a plate, like this!

Or if I had a big saw and it looked like I’d sawed Skitts in two!  Then they could paint on some blood to make it look really real.

At least they coulda made it look like I had two heads.

So, I don’t think it was worth two whole dollars.  But if that’s what Hana wants to buy, that’s her choice.  Besides, she’s prob’ly just happy Skitts SMOOCHED her when we saw ‘em.

Me, I’m gonna talk to Jack and see if he’ll draw me with my head off.  I bet he won’t even charge two dollars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (google 'victorian trick photography' for real examples of all of the above) :p


	62. Orphan Train (13 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

I’ve gotta tell ya ‘bout somethin’ that happened when me and Sarah and Danny went back to New York last week.

I mean, lots o’ stuff happened—Mr. Jacobs and Davey and Les all met Danny for the first time (he traveled real well—he only kicked up a fuss once on the train, and it was on the way back); Uncle Carl and Aunt Iva and their kids and o’ course Bubbe Gilda came over for Hanukkah, and I swear Bubbe Gilda’s got magic, ‘cause Danny was sure as heck fussin’ when she first showed up and she calmed him down the second she touched him.  (Either that, or what I thought was soothin’ Yiddish words mighta been Negotiations, like, “If ya shut up for three minutes, I’ll sneak ya some jelly from the sufganiots.”) Grace Beaumont invited us ridin’ with her and her fiancé, Thomas Hayes, who it turned out I usedta sell papes to when he went to Columbia (Sarah decided not to go “because that way you three can go tearing around Central Park without worrying about me,” which was fair given how fast Silver is, and caught up with some girls from work instead.) We took Danny to Duane Street with Les and Dave, and Kloppman acted all shocked that the kid turned out all right, and then we met up with Medda and went window-shoppin’ ‘til Danny decided he wanted his dinner, and he wanted it  _NOW_!

But the part I wanna tell ya ‘bout is when us older fellas met up for a drink—I mean Dave and Crutchy and Snoddy and Skitts and Pie Eater and Swifty and Blink and Mush.  (We saw Race and Spot the same day we saw Duane Street.)  And we were only one drink in when Skittery nudged me and said, “Come outside a minute.”

So, we went out.  He offered me a cigarette, and I offered him a light, and I asked, “You ask Hana to marry you yet?”  

I was jokin’.  But he scowled, and took a deep breath o’ smoke, and he finally said, “Remember when ya did [all that searchin’ to find out where Nell came from](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/100106766507/nell-the-wonder-horse-part-two-in-which-jack)?”

–Well, that ain’t what I’d thought he would ask about.  Heck, I wouldn’t’ve even thought he’d remember it.  But I just said, “Yeah, sure”—and then, “You got a horse?”

“No!” he snapped. Skitts gets mean when he’s worried, and I shut up.  In a minute he said, “It’s my brothers an’ sister.”

Skittery never talks about his folks—it’d took Hana askin’ before any o’ us, except maybe Tumbs or Snoddy, knew he had ‘em at all.  So I listened, and he said, “They [went West somewhere](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168264803987/ahoj-roman-i-wonder-would-you-ever-want-to), on the orphan train, and I thought maybe…since ya work at the farm now…”

“You want me to look ‘em up?”

It took him a second, but he nodded, just a little, huddled into his coat.  “The orphanage wouldn’t tell me nothin’,” he mumbled.  “I don’t know if they’re together or not.”

But I hadn’t let nothin’ stop me from trackin’ my horse down, and I figured a couple kids’d be easier to find than Nell was.  I mean, at least kids could talk.  “You wanna write their names down?” I asked him.  I can’t spell other languages worth nothin’.

But Skitts just reached into his pocket and pulled out a list he’d made already:

  * Miloš Kučera, b. 5/16/1885, Tábor, Bohemia
  * Máša Kučera, b. 8/27/1887, Tábor, Bohemia
  * Jonáš Kučera, b. 8/27/1887, Tábor, Bohemia (twins)
  * left Manhattan April 1894.



 

That was a whole lot o’ symbols and names I didn’t know how to pronounce—but I reckoned it’d be easier to look up a Miloš Kučera than it would be a John Smith.  So I folded the list an’ tucked it into the book in my back pocket ( _Texas Ted; or, The Great Fire_ , if you’re wonderin’), and I told him, “I’ll find ‘em, all right?”

And I know Skittery don’t got a whole lot o’ reason to trust me, and I was kinda surprised he’d even told me about any o’ this.  But he nodded, and held out his hand, and said, “Thanks, Jack.”

I spit in my hand and we shook on it, and then Blink stuck his head out the pub door and yelled, “Are you two gonna freeze out there all night?!”

So we went in, and we both had another drink, and we didn’t tell nobody else what we’d talked about. The only person I’ve told is Sarah, and I know she won’t snitch.  But I’ve got me ear to the ground just like the Indian trackers in  _Texas Ted_ , and I ain’t found nothin’ yet, but I’ve only been back a few days.  Give me a week and I bet ya I’ll have somethin’.

And in the meantime, don’t tell nobody I’m lookin’, all right?  Skitts has the right to a secret.


	63. Zabíjačka (16 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned that this not-quite-a-story mentions a distinctly non-vegetarian food tradition. As a hint to what it is, zabíjačka means “slaughter.”

Hana doesn’t get homesick often.  Sure, she misses some things from her childhood, but mostly it’s the people she wishes she could see again.  And New York is home now; her parents are there, and she’s content with her life.  

But it’s December, and things feel wrong.  She knows that back in the hills of Slovakia they’ve already pressed the cabbage, and likely slaughtered the hogs.  Some traditions they couldn’t bring along to the city, and  _zabíjačka_  is one of them.

It’s usually in early December that families process a pig for eating over the winter.  After beginning around 5:30 in the morning, if not earlier, the long day ends with a meal of  _kapustnica_.  It’s work, but it’s something you do in community, and something that will make the winter to come easier.

_Kapustnica_  is sauerkraut soup often made during the colder months.  In November many families begin to make their own sauerkraut ( _kyslá kapusta_ ) by pressing cabbage ( _kapusta_ )—you layer shredded cabbage and spices in a ceramic crock and literally press down on it until water comes out, repeating the layering and pressing until the crock is full and your arm is sore; then you cover the crock and leave it somewhere to ferment, and in a few weeks you have sauerkraut.  There are different recipes for  _kapustnica_ , but in addition to the sauerkraut and water it often includes sausage, dried plums, and paprika.

It’s hard to carry on these traditions when you have so little time and so little  _room_ (Revúca is no big city, but it seems boundless compared to New York, where every inch is expensive and crowded).  There’s a certain feeling you get when you know that you ought to be doing something, and that someone is doing that thing without you, a feeling of emptiness and longing.  And in mid-December the city is grim and chilly, and she’s leaving for Pittsburgh soon and has been working hard to make sure the Roths’ and the Vande Kerks’ houses are in good shape before she goes, and she isn’t looking forward to leaving Roman, and she’s worried that he’ll fall into some deep well of sadness and suffering during her absence, and even the most even-tempered person has a breaking point. 

So if she’s feeling that she’s missing something around  _zabíjačka_  time, Hana might be likely to make  _kapustnica_.  She goes and buys sausage from a butcher she trusts, and plums, and onions and garlic and mushrooms and paprika and bay leaves, and the apartment starts to fill with the sharp scent of sauerkraut cooking.  Even if the sauerkraut is bought and not homemade, she starts to feel a little less fretful, like something’s going right, like things will be easier.  And because it’s an easy meal to feed a crowd, she invites Roman and Tumbler to join them for supper.

They crowd around the table and she ladles out the soup after Tatko prays (and after he and Roman have had their  _slivovica_ ).  But the soup doesn’t taste right.  She can’t put her finger on it, but there’s just something missing.  She must have done something wrong, but she can’t figure out what she could have left out (knowing that it’s because the water didn’t come from their well, and the mushrooms didn’t come from their wood, and she couldn’t add an apple from the tree in her grandparents’ garden).  Mama says it’s fine, and Tatko says it’s good, and Roman smiles and takes his time in eating, and even if Tumbler looked doubtful at first it’s warm and filling, especially with bread dipped in it, and free, so he eats up.  Hana leaves the table to frown into the pot, willing it to be better.  It remains as it was, palatable but  _not good enough_ , and she starts to cry quietly.

“Hanka?” Mama calls, and she can’t answer.  When she doesn’t say anything she hears the scrape of a chair and footsteps approaching.

“What’s the matter?” Roman asks, and she cries a little harder.  There’s nothing to be crying about, she thinks, not with her family there, full bellies and a warm place to sleep; but at the same time everything is too much.  Every snowflake of uncertainty and unhappiness is now part of an avalanche burying her.  He puts his hand on her back and she turns into him, her damp face against his chest.  His arms encircle her immediately and it’s a comfort but not enough because she’s going to leave him.  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks again, worry flooding his voice, and she gives a shuddering sigh.

After a moment in his arms she’s done crying, though it’s left her feeling wrung-out and limp and no less inexplicably sad.  As he guides her to the settee she knows they’re looking at her, her parents frowning and bewildered, Tumbler’s expression undecipherable through the teardrops that wet her eyelashes.  Once they’ve sat Mama stands abruptly and herds the others into the kitchen, soup bowls in hand.  Hana stares at her lap as Roman watches her; he wipes the tears from her cheeks in silence, though she knows he’s still asking his previous questions.

“The soup is wrong,” she mumbles, because she has to say something.  It’s not fair to leave him without an answer, even a foolish, false one.  He seems to know there’s nothing to say to that, and when she dares to glance up at him, his face is so solemn and concerned and, worst of all, understanding that the tears spill out again.  Roman puts an arm around her shoulders and takes her hand; while it’s more than he’s ever dared with her parents home it isn’t as thrilling or daring as it should feel.  She curls into him and listens to him murmuring in Czech, his cheek against her hair.  It doesn’t matter what he’s saying—some of it sounds like the words of a half-remembered lullaby, and she feels his hurt, too, and her heart aches all the more—it just matters that he’s saying it. 

Things are not the same.  They’ll never be the same.  She’ll always remember that the  _kapustnica_  tasted better in Revúca, because the sausage was as fresh as it could be and she’d helped pick the mushrooms herself earlier that autumn, out in the woods with her cousins and uncle.  She’ll miss the way her hands smelled like carraway and fennel after pressing the cabbage, and the way Tatko always made a funny noise when he picked up the crock to of soon-to-be-sauerkraut to move it to the perfect spot in the kitchen.  Suddenly even though her father is just steps away she misses him.  Suddenly the pace of the world, the way everything keeps moving, keeps changing, catches up with her and she’s exhausted.  Eyes closed, she curls her fingers in his shirt, holds on to it as a lifeline, hoping dimly that she hasn’t become one more thing to weigh him down.

Though Revúca had many things that made it home, it didn’t have Roman.  That has to be enough.  Most days she believes it is; now she just prays it’s true. 


	64. Meta: Five Facts about Hana (with an Interjection from Jack)

> Here are five (…ish) facts about Hana.
> 
> –When Hana was nine she suffered a concussion after falling out of a tree.  Her parents have never told her how close they came to losing her that day.
> 
> –She doesn’t love kissing Roman right after he’s been smoking.  She does it anyway, though, because she still loves him (and loves kissing him in general).
> 
> –She’s a competent cook and of course an ace at cleaning, but otherwise she’s not particularly good with her hands.  After the holidays she’s going to ask Mrs. Hermann to teach her how to knit, and she’s going to wheedle Pauline into joining her in the lessons.
> 
> –One of the Kollárs’ neighbors in Revúca raised rabbits.  Hana still has the rabbit-fur hat they made for her, even though it doesn’t fit anymore.  At some point she’ll think that she ought to send it to Pittsburgh for Thomas to wear, but will conveniently “forget” to ever do that.
> 
> –She thinks a beard would suit Roman, and hopes one day to convince him to try growing one.

I was gonna tell Skitts if he grows a beard, I’ll grow my hair out like Buffalo Bill, but Sarah said no.

Personally, I think it’d be a great look on me.  Maybe Hana can work on convincin’ her.


	65. Mistletoe (22 December 1904)

Pauline cast a longing glance at the Kollárs’ door as they passed.  “She’ll be back soon,” Calvin comforted, tightening his arm around her.

“I know,” she sighed, “and I’m sure she’s having a wonderful time.  But we’ve grown so close these past months, and I miss seeing her.”

“I bet she misses you, too.”

“And you’re sure Roman is alright?”  Her face was pinched with concern as she looked up at him.  They’d arrived outside her door; he settled his hands on her shoulders and gazed at her.  Who’d have ever thought the day would come when a respectable girl like Pauline would be so concerned about Skittery’s welfare?—and that was in addition to the sweet young lady who was in love with him.  The boys would hardly believe it if they knew.  They wouldn’t hear about it from him, though. 

Skittery was doing as well as could be expected with his girl gone at Christmas, the time of year when people most wanted to be with their loved ones.  And for Skitts, that was pretty darn good.  “He’s been through worse,” Calvin said kindly.  And that was something else he didn’t plan on elaborating on, not to her, not now.  There was still a lot she didn’t know about his past; Skitts’ history certainly wasn’t for him to share.  “And we’ve been checkin’ on him.”

Her expression was doubtful, as were her words: “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”  He didn’t point out that Skittery wouldn’t react well to the idea that Pauline was fretting about him.  He gave her shoulders a squeeze.  “I’ll let you know if you need to be worried, okay?”  

She nodded.  Then, after a moment’s thought, the worry passed and a smile finally blossomed on her lips.  “I trust you,” she said, leaning into his grasp.  With her face tipped up becomingly, her eyes wide and voice low, the words were weighted with meaning that she didn’t intend.  Then again, he thought, noting the gleam in her lash-veiled eyes, his girl was nobody’s fool.  He doubted she did much she didn’t intend. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  She nodded, looking young and fresh.  Her cheeks were creamy pink and her eyes shone even in the weak light and her lips were rosy and parted ever so slightly, hinting that a kiss would be welcome.  He couldn’t disagree with that sentiment, but he ought to be more patient.  Rushing things would be no good, especially not for her.  With some effort he broke the gaze, wrenching his eyes heavenward as if for divine support.

Above the Hermanns’ door was tacked a sprig of greenery, dotted with white berries and tied with a red-and-gold ribbon.  The mistletoe probably didn’t have much of an effect; he couldn’t imagine Pauline’s neighbors pausing there, in the wan light of the narrow hallway, to share seasonally-mandated embraces.  He gave it a speculative appraisal.

“Does that ever work?”

She followed his gaze up to the decoration, then looked at him with a quizzical expression.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you get lots o’ kisses from people because of it?”

Pauline’s cheeks turned a deeper pink at that, and her eyes fluttered away from his for a moment.  But then, with her eyes still lowered, a mischievous smile stole onto her lips; Calvin felt a pleasant thrill of anticipation at learning what was going through her mind.  She raised her eyes to peer up at him through her lashes. 

“Why, Mr. Angier, are you worried you might have competition?” she purred, punctuating the question with a slow blink. 

Not to be outdone, he matched her tone.  “Can ya blame me?”

Though she bit her lip, it didn’t stifle her indrawn breath at his candor.  “To tell the truth,” she admitted, her eyes drifting away, “no one’s kissed me under it yet.”

“Ever?”  He found that difficult to believe. 

“This year,” she clarified, a hint of shame in her voice.  He let go of her shoulders then and saw the self-censure build; its advance was halted when he took her hands and started to work easing her gloves off.  What did she think, that he would consider her soiled for having been kissed before?  It wasn’t as if he’d never kissed another girl.  It wouldn’t be fair to expect something different from her. 

He tucked the gloves in his own pocket before taking her hands.  “I’m glad no one’s kissed you here this year.”

Her smile was shy again.  “I haven’t wanted anyone else to.”  

“Anyone else?”  He feigned ignorance.  “Does that mean you want… _me_  to?” he wondered, as if the thought of kissing her had never occurred to him.  It had, and quite often that evening alone if the truth be known. 

“Oh, yes, Calvin, please.”  Her slender fingers tightened around his, and he thought no one had ever been asked for a kiss so sweetly. 

As much as part of him wanted to sweep her into his arms and give her the type of kiss that authors said seared the soul and stole the breath, he remembered his earlier promise of patience.  Some people (not that he would name any names) seemed to feel any sort of moderation was agony; but he found that, besides being prudent, a little delay and deliberation made some things sweeter and stronger.  He dropped her hands once more and reached up, cupping her jaw.  Her skin was still cool from the winter air; as his thumbs smoothed over her cheeks he felt her pulse beneath his fingertips.  She waited, her eyes closed, trusting him as she’d said.  He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up with such a good thing, such an unexpected girl, and he paused to take her in. 

Then he leaned down to brush his lips over hers, a meeting so slight it barely counted as a kiss, and murmur, “Merry Christmas, Paulie.”

He could feel her smiling.  “I love it when you call me that,” she whispered, her expression utterly content.  She opened her eyes for as long as it took to say, “Merry Christmas, Calvin”; then she was kissing him until he saw stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: MANIACS SMOOCH UNDER MISTLETOE LOVENEST!


	66. Christmas Eve (24 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**_24\. december 1904.  Najdrahší Roman, prajem Ťa Veselé Vianoce!  Chybáš mi veľmi a milujem ťa._ Please wish Tumbler a merry Christmas for me, and the same to Pauline if you see her.   _Tvoja Hana_**

 

A.

Dear Hana, 

I hope you’re having a good time with Jozef and his family.  Tumbler’s so excited for Christmas he could burst.  Hope he likes the photo I’m getting him–when I made the appointment the man said he could [take off Tumbs’ head](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168448875407/howd-your-portrait-turn-out-boys-do-you-look) “if that’s what you really want,” so I’m holding him to it.  (I think he was hoping you’d show up and make me behave again.)

I miss you, but I’m glad you got a chance to see your family.  Jsi ten nejlepší vánoční dárek, o který bych mohl požádat.  Obejmuj dítě pro mě.  Brzy se uvidíme.

S láskou,

Roman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Najdrahší Roman, prajem Ťa Veselé Vianoce! Chybáš mi veľmi a milujem ťa. ... Tvoja Hana = Dearest Roman, I wish you a merry Christmas! I miss you a lot and I love you. ... Your Hana
> 
> Jsi ten nejlepší vánoční dárek, o který bych mohl požádat. Obejmuj dítě pro mě. Brzy se uvidíme. S láskou = You are the best Christmas present I could have asked for. Hug the baby for me. Love, Roman


	67. Christmas 1904 (25 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

By 4:30, the line of boys waiting for dinner stretched down the street as far as Kloppman could see.

“Two hundred an’ nineteen already,” announced Bridget, who was throwing the dining-hall windows open in preparation for the heat all those bodies—eating in shifts of 165—crowded into the room would bring.  “And sure if I don’t see Racetrack, the rogue!”

“Race!”  Crutchy stuck his head out the window and waved wildly, a bowl of turnips balanced on one hip.  “You bring [my potato-peeler](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168772789272/prompt-9-find-me-an-elf-go)?!”

“Too late!” Race called back.  “I invested it for ya and the horse let me down!”

The boys roared with laughter, the sound muffled as Kloppman left the room and hobbled down to the lobby just as the phone rang.  “Hello?” he said, picking up.  “Duane Street Lodginghouse.”

“Kloppman!”  The voice that came through the line was distant and staticky, but unmistakably Jack’s.  “How’s it goin’?  You guys started dinner yet?”

“Five o’clock, just like last year,” the old man retorted.  “Why?  You comin’?”

Jack laughed.  “Nah, Sarah’d kill me.  I’m s’pposed to keep the kid outta the way while she makes dinner.” Something muffled the line for a minute, and Kloppman heard Jack ask, “You wanna talk on the phone, Dan?  —He says no.  Listen, is Skitts there yet?”

“I’ll go see.” Setting the receiver on the counter, Kloppman shuffled to the front door.  “Skittery!” he yelled into the crowd, and a moment later he heard a “What?!”—the voice defensive and indignant, still, but much deeper than the small boy’s who’d showed up all those years ago.

Kloppman waved him forward. “C’mere.”

Untangling himself from the group he’d been standing with—Tumbler, of course, and Pie Eater and Swifty—Kloppman wondered where Snoddy had gone—Skittery came up the steps, and Kloppman gestured to the phone.  “It’s Cowboy.”

Frowning, Skittery picked up the receiver.  “Yeah?”

“Hey!  Listen, sorry for takin’ forever.  I had to chase down one o’ the families ‘cause at first I thought they’d burned up in a fire, but—”

Skittery felt like his heart had stopped.  “You found ‘em?”

“Yeah.”

Letting out a deep breath, Skittery leaned on the counter, pressing the receiver to his ear so hard it left marks—as if that could bring his brothers and sister closer; as if it could steady him for the news.  “…Where are they?”

There was a sudden shrill yell on the other end, and Jack grumbled, “Danny, for real?”  After a moment, he said, “Sorry.  They’re all in Iowa.  The twins are in Cedar Rapids, an’ they’re together.”

A rush of hope flooded him, and Skittery asked, “And Miloš?”

“He’s fine.  He’s in Grand Junction, which ain’t real far, an’ they write letters—”

Cursing softly, the way someone more pious might send up a prayer, Skittery shook his head.  Jack was continuing: “—but he’s goin’ by Miles Johnson, an’ the guy who picked him is William Johnson, so when I wrote to the pape in Grand Junction to ask if William Johnson still lived there an’ they said his house burned with everyone in it, I about had a heart attack—”

“It  _what_?!”

“So I called ’em, and this young guy picks up an’ goes ‘William Johnson only had daughters,’ so I ask him to check it out an’ this old guy comes on and says they moved outta town a long time ago, and the kid’s name is Miles but he came on the orphan train and it’s a different William Johnson from the guy who got burned to a crisp.”

All Skittery could say was “…Oh.”

“So he’s still okay.” Danny babbled, and Jack murmured, “I know,” and then told Skittery, “And the twins are okay.  And I got the addresses.  Does ‘Klement and Pavla Cermak’ sound Czech to you?”

“Yeah,” Skittery said quietly.  “Why?”

“They’re the folks who got the twins.  They run a store.”

Skittery laughed, the sound slightly strangled—with relief, sadness, he didn’t know.  “How ‘bout Miloš?  —Miles.”

“They got a farm.  You get outta the system at eighteen, but the guy at the pape said he still lives there.”

Skittery nodded, forgetting Jack couldn’t see him.  Storekeepers and a farmer.  That sounded a lot better than anything in New York.

“I got the addresses,” Jack said again, breaking him out of his thoughts.  “You ready?”

Copying them onto a blank ledger page, Skittery stared at the strange words—cities he’d never been to, names he no longer recognized: Miles Johnson, Grand Junction; Máša and Joe Cermak, Cedar Rapids.  But they were alive.  

They were alive, and they were together, and they were all okay.

“…Skitts?”  Jack sounded concerned, even though Danny tried drowning him out with a wail.  “You there?”

“Yeah, Jack.”  He paused.  “…You really called all across the country like that?”

“Yeah.  I just told ‘em I was doin’ the yearly check-in.” Jack laughed.  “I’m so good at usin’ phones now, I think I’m gonna become one o’ those switchboard ladies.  Or maybe a private eye.”

Skittery snorted. “Listen…thanks.”

“No problem.”  When Danny began crying again, Jack sighed, “Look, I gotta go.  Tell the boys hey, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And Merry Christmas. And tell Tumbs not to eat so much pie this year.”

“Yeah, I will.”

The front door rattled, and Skittery heard Snipeshooter yelling, “It’s five o’ clock already!”

“It is not!  You got five minutes!” Kloppman barked back, and Skittery told Jack, “See ya later.”

“Are you hungry again?” Jack was asking his son, but told Skittery, “Okay.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“You too.”  The line clicked off on Danny’s bawling, but Skittery held the phone for a while longer, still hardly believing it.  He had siblings again.

But would they write, if he tried it?  What would he tell Hana, and Tumbler?

But he’d have to decide that another day, as the clock chimed five and Kloppman went to unlock the door.  Skittery had just enough time to fold the paper and tuck it into his pocket before getting swept into the tide, with Tumbler grabbing his hand as he passed by.

Was Miles sitting down for Christmas dinner in a farmhouse?  Did the Cermaks decorate their store?

He hoped so.

And someday he hoped he’d find out for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orphan Trains operated from 1854-1929. The founder of the Children’s Aid Society, Charles Loring Brace, hoped to protect street kids from the poverty and gangs of New York City by placing them with rural families, who would ideally raise them as their own children. (The C.A.S. also operated several lodging houses, including the Duane Street newsboys’ lodging house, and the Brace Farm, where Jack currently works. The Brace Farm trained boys for farm work so they could be better prepared to go west on the trains.) 
> 
> Typically, a group of children and a couple of chaperones would head west, covering different parts of a state each year. Stops would be advertised ahead of time, and prospective families would show up to inspect the children and decide whether to bring them home. The C.A.S. tried to screen the families as best as they could, requiring references and following up on placed children every year. Although some children were returned to the C.A.S. or got into bad situations, the majority did well, and most of the articles I found by former riders talk about the orphan trains in a positive way–the system wasn’t perfect, but it was better than staying in the cities.
> 
> The train really stopped in Cedar Rapids and Grand Junction, Iowa in 1894. Cedar Rapids had a large Czech-American population, so Jonáš and Máša could have grown up with a familiar culture, while Miloš, like many of the children, would have learned to farm.
> 
> This gives some background on the Orphan Train movement, while this page is specific to Kansas (but includes some interesting documents and articles related to the trains). Here is an article about the train in Iowa, including a list of stops–it lists Cedar Rapids’ stop as 1895(?), but I also found it listed as 1894, so that’s what I went with for the story. This talks about Czech history in Cedar Rapids.
> 
> I owe a big thank-you to @pandolfo-malatesta, who not only got me to start this story arc that I’ve been planning since 2014, but spent forever trying to track down the details of this story. What a pal. :)


	68. Gifts (30 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**What'd you get Hana for Christmas, Skittery?  (Besides lots of kisses, of course.)  You at least went and met her at the station when her train came in, yeah?**

 

A.

Look, ya bum, who’re you to decide what I “at least” and “of course” did for my girl?!  I remember when a fella could court somebody in peace without answerin’ to all the nosy mugs in town.

–’Course, that was before Jack started blabbin’ everyone’s business on this paperless pape thing, so I guess it ain’t any use holdin’ out on ya.

If it means all that much to ya, I was lookin’ through a used bookstore, tryin’ to find her a story in Slovak that might match up with one in English, so she could use both if she got stuck translatin’, when I found a box of old maps–includin’ [this one](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fcartweb.geography.ua.edu%2Flizardtech%2Fiserv%2Fcalcrgn%3Fcat%3DEurope%26item%3DContinent%2FEurope1880au.sid%26wid%3D500%26hei%3D400%26props%3Ditem%28Name%2CDescription%29%2Ccat%28Name%2CDescription%29%26style%3Dsimple%2Fview-dhtml.xsl&t=OTg1OWI5NDM5Yjk2OGUxYjVmZDc1MzIzMGJhM2I1MjhkODE1ZWQ3YSxIUjBuMmVtZg%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F169118172477%2Fwhatd-you-get-hana-for-christmas-skittery&m=1) of Central Europe.

So, I bought that instead, and then I took it to a frame shop and asked ’em to put it on a board or somethin’ with a frame around it, but no glass.  Once that was ready, I took a couple push _-_ pins and painted ‘em gold to match the frame paint, and then I stuck ‘em in the map where Tábor and Revúca are.

I mean, maybe it was a dumb present.  But Tábor and Revúca look awful close, and that’s the point.

–And yeah, of course I met Hana at the station, and for your information, she  _likes_  gettin’ kisses, so there.  Now go bother somebody else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The map was published in NYC in 1880, and comes from this list of historic maps. “Push-Pins” were invented in PA in 1900 and quickly spread nationwide. Ten cents could buy a box of 6-48 pins, depending on the type…which means that Skitts will have some left over for hanging things like his portrait with Tumbler…or possibly a portrait of Tumbler without a head.


	69. Home Again (30 December 1904)

_Home, home, home,_  said the great metal wheels of the train.  She’d dozed most of the evening, and many of her fellow passengers in the car were still asleep; but the nearer they drew, the more awake Hana felt.  She hugged herself, staring out the fogged-over window into a landscape more and more starred with lights.  The window flashed back the dim, blurred reflection of a young woman with a scarf wound around her neck and an irrepressible smile on her lips.  She dipped her chin to hide the smile—though no one was paying her the least attention.  Anyway, anyone who saw ought to understand her mood; surely some of them were going home, too, home to a familiar room and a doting family and, if they were lucky, a beloved sweetheart.  Hidden or not, her smile widened. 

Her excitement grew as the train chugged closer to the city.  After what seemed like hours more, the line of cars at last groaned and shuddered to a halt.  Hana managed not to leap to her feet and elbow her fellow passengers out of the way in her haste to disembark; she even helped the mother across the aisle wrangle her bags and her whining children both, though she itched at the delay.  Finally, cardboard suitcase safely in hand, she stepped down from the train. 

The cold sliced through her coat as she paused, searching the platform for anyone she knew.  Roman hadn’t said he’d be there, and it was late; it would be understandable if he weren’t there.  But she hoped he was as eager to see her as she was to see him, hoped he just couldn’t stay away. 

“Hanka!”  That was her father’s voice, and there was her mother’s arm waving, and she grinned, hurrying toward them, the chill air pricking tears in her eyes.  There was just time to drop the suitcase before Mama caught her with a chatter of Slovak, patting her cheek and asking questions without leaving time for her to answer; and she didn’t miss the relief in Tatko’s eyes as he took his turn to pull her into a wordless embrace.   _I’m back_ , she said with the squeeze of her arms,  _you don’t need to worry anymore_. 

Mama was still fussing as Tatko let her go and stooped to pick up her case, but she paid them no mind as Roman stepped forward.  A quick glance revealed that he looked none the worse for her absence, for which she was grateful.  The past ten days had seemed the colder for missing him; now that he was so close she felt warmth spreading through her.  At the sight of him standing there with his eyes glowing and expression alight with happiness her breath caught for just a moment.  Then she closed the distance between them.

His cheeks were cool beneath her fingertips.  “Hey,” he murmured sweetly, dimpling at her caress.  She hadn’t meant to do anything but hug him; but that one word, that one smile crumbled her resolve.  Without a thought for propriety she raised herself on her toes and kissed him long and deep.  Roman smiled against her lips and put his arms around her, and his steady heartbeat said  _home, home, home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since it was late & cold & dark by the time they got home Mama & Tatko let him sleep on the settee  
> IMAGINE this kid’s heart when he wakes up to Hana with her hair down bringing him coffee


	70. Stay the Night (31 December 1904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Ya got to stay over at Hana’s??  That’s serious.  What was it like?**

 

A.

SKITTERY: Well, first her parents took off to spend all night at the Irving, so after emptyin’ her pop’s bottle of slivovica, me and Hana [threw a blanket in front o’ the fire and spent twelve hours smoochin](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/167032272085/the-downpour-that-had-been-threatening-all-day)’.

…

C’mon, what do ya think happened?!  We got home, her ma pulled out a late dinner (in case Hana hadn’t eaten the whole time she was away), and her folks grilled her about Jozef and Zuzana and the kid until two in the mornin’.  Once her ma realized how late it was, they shuffled Hana to bed (which is in her folks’ room) and me to the couch, and if you think by “wake us up if you need something.  I am light sleeper,” her pop was only concerned about whether I was gonna need a bedtime story, well, go back to readin’ Horatio Alger.  So you can be awfully sure there weren’t any shenanigans.

Wakin’ up to a mug o’ hot coffee was good, though.  ‘Specially since Hana was bringin’ it.  And even if her pop was concerned about me sneakin’ around in the middle o’ the night, he was a pretty good pal about distractin’ her ma so we could steal a kiss or two.

But that’s it.  Who do you think I am, Kid Blink?!


	71. Dobré ráno (31 December 1904)

There was, she discovered, nothing like waking up in your own bed after having been away. Hana turned her face into her pillow for a moment, relishing the familiar rustle of the feathers within. Then, after a luxuriant stretch of arms and legs, she rose quietly and dressed.

If you eased the bedroom door open just so it wouldn’t squeal. She tiptoed out, closing the door on her sleeping parents; just as quietly she shuffled through the living room, hope trumping apprehension over what she might find. 

He was still there. 

For a moment she thought she’d dreamed that Mama had allowed him to stay, thought her fatigue had fooled her into believing that what she’d wanted had come true; but there he was, fast asleep on the settee. One arm was tucked under his head, and the blanket Mama had given him was draped over his midsection, leaving his legs uncovered. His shoes were safely stowed under the settee, and his coat and vest were draped over a chair. His hair was mussed, and even though his neck would surely have a crick in it when he woke, his face was slack, his breathing even. With some difficulty she resisted the urge to sink to the floor and run her fingers through his hair. 

Once the coffee was made it wouldn’t be long before Tatko and Mama woke. When they did the apartment would be the stage for a well-rehearsed whirl of activity as they dressed and breakfasted and made their way to work. If she wanted any time alone with Roman it would have to be now; but she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to wake him. In the meantime she busied herself with grounds and boiling water, mugs and spoons.

By the time she returned, mug warm in her hands, he was upright and yawning sleepily. That appreciative hum could have been a response to the coffee or to her, or both; he took the cup she offered with obvious relish, breathing in the scent before sipping from it. 

“ _Dobré ráno_ ,” she said, her voice sleep-roughened. At the sound he lifted his face; she leaned down, one hand on his knee to steady herself, and kissed him briefly. 

“ _Dobré ráno, miláčku_.” The quiet rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. He reached out and caught her hand, tugged her down next to him. As he laced their fingers together she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Just for a second she let herself imagine a thousand more mornings like this: his face the first she saw, his voice the first she heard. She could, she thought, as he pressed his lips to her temple, happily spend the rest of her life waking up to him. Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t; but for now she reveled in the moment, in the feeling of him warm at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobré ráno = good morning  
> miláčku = sweetheart


	72. Nobby Nat (3 January 1905)

_A musical laugh came to their ears, and, looking upward, they saw on the rocks far above, outlined against the starry sky, a black horse and its rider._

What a thrilling image!  Gertrude Grant had a flair for the dramatic matched only by her determined streak.  Pauline glanced up from her reading to muse, “Do you think I could learn to ride a horse?”

“Not another one,” Roman said, shaking his head.

“You could do anything you want,” Calvin answered matter-of-factly.  She beamed at him, her satisfaction growing when he went on, “And I bet you’d look real sophisticated up on a horse.  As long as it was a good one, and not some mangy mustang,” he added.  At this last Roman snickered, though the remark meant little to her.

“What’re you readin’ there anyway, Shiv?”

She had the cover turned back to hide its title, trying to stave off this exact discussion.  The novel was an old one she’d found, though its age made it no less entertaining.  To counteract her flushed cheeks, she tipped her chin up defiantly.  “That’s hardly any of your business.”

His business or not, he surged out of his seat and snatched the book out of her hands.  “Roman!” she cried, springing to her feet.  “Give that back.”  But when she reached for it he held it over her head, well out of arm’s length.

He flipped the book closed—though he at least had the decency to keep her place marked with his finger—and, craning his neck upward, read, “ _[Nobby Nat, the Tenderfoot Detective](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fdimenovels.lib.niu.edu%2Fislandora%2Fobject%2Fdimenovels%253A142020%2Fpages&t=MDI1MDk5OGZiMGFjMjRhOWJmZGIwODU5NGQyODFjYWEwMGUzOThmMSx6bUVGNVVQQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F169284433290%2Fa-musical-laugh-came-to-their-ears-and-looking&m=1); or, the Girl Rancher’s Rough Rustle_.”  He let out an exaggerated groan, head lolling back.  “I thought we were done with the cowboy-dime-novel crowd,” he said to Calvin.

“Don’t be a snob,” she retorted. 

_Like a flash, the girl flung back the hand that held her whip, her eyes flashing in the moonlight.  It was plain she intended to leave her mark on Nathan Kirk’s face._   Give her even just a pin and Pauline would make her own displeasure evident.

“I’d be careful, Skitts,” Calvin said mildly.  “If Paulie’s been readin’ about a girl with a gun, there’s no tellin’ what she might do.  And I won’t stop her.”

Roman’s answer was cut off by Hana’s return from the washroom.  She took in the scene—Pauline with hands on her hips and an annoyed expression, Roman holding the book aloft—and raised an eyebrow; Pauline nearly laughed at the almost sheepish way he lowered his arm and returned the book.  When Hana sat Roman resumed his place beside her, taking her hand with a gentleness that belied his earlier behavior.  Pauline, too, sat, with a flounce that landed her closer to Calvin than she’d intended; he merely lifted his arm and settled it about her shoulders, as casually as if they’d sat that way a hundred times before.  She took a moment to admire his “manly contour of face and form,” as Nobby Nat’s author put it.

“What is your book about?” Hana asked.

Pauline straightened and faced her friend, doing her best to ignore the mock interest on Roman’s face.  “Gertrude Grant inherited her father’s ranch, and runs into trouble when a big cattle company fences off her access to a river.  She joins a group of small ranchers who are cutting fences, which puts her at odds with the man she once loved.”

“But she gets over it an’ swoons into his arms, the end,” Roman supplied.  Hana drove her elbow into his side.

“And she threatens to shoot him,” Pauline continued, pointedly, “mistaking him for her invalid sister’s former love.”

“Girls,” he sighed.  She shot him another dirty look and would have snapped back if not for the subtle pressure of Calvin’s arm on her shoulders.  Pauline stifled a sigh and shifted her weight, leaning into his embrace ever so slightly as she pondered rescinding every nice thing she’d ever said about Roman.

“Well?” he demanded when she didn’t continue recounting the tale.  “Then what happens?”

He had the good sense to look abashed when she raised her eyebrows at his impatience.  Then Pauline let an evil grin overtake her fair face and raised the book, leaving him to mutter about how she was a tease and how she’d better hurry up and finish so he could read it.

_“Reckon thet’ll l’arn him a few!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the quotes are genuinely from Nobby Nat. Thanks to jackcowboyhero for finding the text for me!
> 
> JACK: CALL NELL MANGY TO MY FACE, CALVIN!!!!!!!
> 
> (In other news, tell Pauline her beau’s besmirched my wonder horse’s honor, and since I’ve got my hands tied with a job to report for and a baby to hold, I’ll pay her to give Snoddy a couple o’ stabs with her hatpin on Nell’s behalf.
> 
> …Or, ya know, a gun, or fence-cutters, or whatever Gertrude would use. Also, ask Pauline if she’d mind lendin’ me her book when Skitts is done with it. I’ll trade her a real doozy about Pearl Hart, the stage robber.)


	73. Gussie (4 January 1905)

Tumbler collapsed into the seat across from her, crossed his arms on the tabletop, and dropped his head onto them.  “She’s killin’ me,” he grumbled. 

“Who?”

“The new kid.”

“She’s not so bad,” Les suggested, unwinding his scarf.  Tumbler’s response was a wordless groan. 

The pronoun had piqued Hana’s interest the first time around and did so again.  “A new girl?  Selling papers?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not like she’s the only one,” Les said.  “There’ve been a couple the past few years. They’re alright.”  This magnanimity was somewhat surprising, given the lack of consideration he displayed toward his own sister.  It was much more predictable when he went on, “But havin’ them around ain’t as fun as sellin’ with the fellas,” thumping Tumbler’s back companionably.

The other raised his head and peered at her.  Then he dragged his cheeks downward, his fingertips digging into his skin.  “Do I look old?” he wondered.

“Of course not!”  Ghastly, perhaps, his eyelids pulled down like that, but as youthful as ever.

“This kid—”

“Her name’s Gussie,” Les told Hana.

“—is followin’ me everywhere.  I don’t got a minute to myself since she showed.  I’m surprised she didn’t follow us here.”  He glanced around the restaurant, as if checking to see that she hadn’t appeared there somehow.  “An’ like that ain’t bad enough, she’s outsellin’ me, ’cause she’s five—”

“Eight.”

“—so next to her I look like an old man, an’ folks think  _she’s_  the cute one.”  His disgust at the situation was clear.  

“Is she cute?”

“I guess, if ya like big freckles on little blonde kids.”  He jammed his arms crossed over his chest and tucked his chin down, glowering.  Hana hid a smile.  His grumpiness was adorable, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate hearing that.

“There’s a gap between her front teeth an’ everything,” Les added.  “She finds a good sellin’ spot, she’ll make a fortune.”

“She needs to find a spot far away from me.”

Les grinned slyly.  “But she ain’t gonna, ’cause she  _loves_  you.”

“Does not!” he spat, flushing red.  “Anyway, she’s five.”

Mr. Kloppman wouldn’t allow her upstairs, no matter her age, and it was bitterly cold.  “Where did she come from?  Does she have some place to stay?”

“Yeah, she’s got folks.  Grandparents or somethin’.”  Les dismissed them with a gesture, as if he didn’t have folks himself.  “She could stay in the Elizabeth Home if she didn’t.  That’s like the lodging house, but for girls.”

“I don’t care where she stays, long as it’s nowhere near me.”

“Sure, pal,” Les sing-songed.  “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

“Listen, Jacobs,” Tumbler replied evenly, “if you don’t stop yappin’ I’ll knock your teeth in.   _Capisce_?”  

“I’d like to see ya try.”

Before they could actually come to blows (not that Tibby’s probably hadn’t seen worse, from what Roman had said) Hana intervened.  “Are you teaching her how to sell?”

Tumbler shifted in his seat.  “Not on purpose,” he mumbled.

“So she is learning by watching you.”  She nodded.  “You must be a good teacher, if she is selling out quickly.  She is learning from a real professional.”

“I guess,” he allowed, caught between pride and annoyance.  “I mean, I’m not really doin’ anything special…”

“Soon she’ll know enough to find her own spot, and everything will go back to normal.”  Her confident prediction seemed to reassure him somewhat, and by the time Bill arrived to take their order, Tumbler’s mood had lifted.  Then the boys were too busy with their lunch to argue; and when they’d finished eating and Les had hurried off to complete an errand for his mother, Tumbler looked up at her.

“Hey, Hana, do me a favor an’ don’t say anythin’ to Skitts?  I don’t wanna hear from anybody else thinkin’ they’re funny.”  He gave a halfhearted sneer and she clamped her lips together, forestalling a sympathetic moue, and nodded. 

He pulled his hat down with the air of someone facing execution.  “Wish me luck,” he said, and trudged off, leaving her to hide a giggle behind one glove.

* * *

It was another week or so before the topic of the newest newsgirl arose again.  She’d wondered if Gussie was still following him; but she didn’t dare mention her to Roman, and Hana hadn’t seen Tumbler to ask until her shopping took her in the direction of one of Tumbler’s usual spots.  She fished some change from her bag and swerved toward him.

“Hi, Hana.”  He steadfastly ignored the girl loitering near him, even as Hana peeked at her.  She was cute as a button, with a pair of dishwater-blonde braids hanging from a knit cap and a thick speckling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.  When she noticed Hana’s attention she gave a winsome smile, hefting her stack of newspapers a little higher.

“Hi.  Is this Gussie?” she asked quietly.  Not quietly enough, though, because the girl’s eyes widened.

“You told her ’bout me?” she gasped, delighted, skipping closer to them.

“I  _complained_  about you,” Tumbler said, not deigning to look at her.  The correction didn’t dim her smile.

She offered her hand.  “I’m Hana.  A friend of Tumbler’s.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, taking Hana’s hand.  Her gaze traveled over Hana, from her boots to her coat to her hat.  “How old are you?”

That, of all things, led Tumbler to address her directly, though he still didn’t look at her.  With an exasperated sigh he said, “Ya can’t ask ladies that sort o’ thing.”

She tilted her head, a frown creasing her forehead.  “How come?”

“’Cause it ain’t polite.  An’ people won’t buy your papers if they think you’re makin’ fun of ’em.”

“I wouldn’t make fun of her!” Gussie protested.  “Not if she’s your friend!”

That they shouldn’t make fun of anyone, regardless of relationship, did not appear to cross either one’s mind.  Rather than point this out, Hana nodded at their papers.  “Anything good today?”

Gussie rattled off half a dozen headlines in a single breath, her voice loud and bright enough to draw the attention of people passing; two stopped to buy papers.  “What a little darling!” one of them cried.

“See what I gotta put up with?” he grumbled under his breath.  Hana passed over a penny with a sympathetic frown. 

* * *

“There’s Andy,” Pauline pointed out.  She squinted past the boy, currently tipping his cap to a woman who bought a paper, to the girl standing nearby.  Head cocked to one side she said, “I didn’t know he had a selling partner.”

“Not a partner, exactly; more like an apprentice,” Hana explained as their steps slowed.  He’d only asked her not to mention it to Roman, but she kept his confidence all the same.  Anyway, it was easy enough to see the truth of the situation: When they weren’t helping customers, the girl was staring at Tumbler with adoration, trying in vain to capture his attention.  Pauline and Hana paused in front of a grocer’s, peering at the pair of newsies from behind a string of garlic.  Gussie sold a paper, giving a little curtsy to her customer, who patted her on the head; then, beaming, she turned to Tumbler.  Her smile faltered at his disinterested expression.

“Poor thing,” Pauline said.

“Who?  Tumbler, or Gussie?”

Pauline swatted her arm.  “Gussie!  She’s infatuated with him.”

“I don’t see how this could be.  If she spends so much time with him, she must know what he is like.”  In her experience, he was energetic and nosy and delighted by anything disgusting.

“Exactly.  He’s a sweet young man,” Pauline said.  

Hana couldn’t help her incredulous expression.  “He is sweet to you because he likes you,” she explained slowly. 

“Oh, he likes you, too!  You mustn’t think he doesn’t.”  As Pauline squeezed her hand reassuringly, Hana just managed not to roll her eyes.  That was not what she meant at all, and she was almost certain Pauline knew it.  Before she could clarify, Pauline moved the conversation along—further evidence that her obliviousness was deliberate.  “You really don’t feel bad for the poor dear?  Weren’t you ever in puppy-love with some handsome older boy?  A neighbor, or one of your brother’s friends?”

She didn’t need to mull the question over before shaking her head.  She’d been fond of a few of Jozef’s friends, but none of them had ever inspired the kind of innocent devotion now shining in Gussie’s eyes.  Friends had gushed about the way they felt for boys, the sleeplessness and lack of appetite and distraction that accompanied their infatuation, the desperation for attention from the objects of their affection, and she’d listened and nodded, wondering what such a depth of emotion would feel like.  Now she admitted, “I have only ever loved one handsome older boy.”  She felt helplessly naïve and inexperienced the moment the words were out of her mouth; but even so, a smile pulled at her lips.

She felt Pauline’s eyes on her face.  “If you were anyone else I’d hate you,” Pauline informed her.  “Finding the love of your life so easily…”  She shook her head as if disappointed. 

“Oh, hush.  You enjoy looking for yours.”  Hana nudged her ribs.

Pauline busied herself drawing their arms together again, trying to maintain an angelic expression as she considered her answer.  “I do,” she admitted eventually, and when her grin finally broke through it earned an appreciative whistle from a passing messenger. 

“Are you any closer to finding him?” Hana pressed.  Pauline had mentioned Calvin accompanying the family to church on Christmas, but Hana suspected more than that had happened in her absence.  

Her only response was a giggle and a sparkle in her eyes.

* * *

It was far too cold to tarry outside, so Hana took a seat at a table.  Tumbler would be along soon enough; in the meantime a waiter appeared, his smile welcoming.

“You ready to order, miss?” he asked.

Hana shook her head.  “I’m waiting for someone.”

He drummed a brief tattoo against the table before resting his hand on its surface.  As if by accident, his pinky landed atop hers.  It was foolish and wonderful that so little a touch could set her heart tripping over itself.  Ever since she’d come back from Pittsburgh, she’d been happy for any excuse to touch him.  “’Course ya are, pretty lady like you.”

She made a show of looking him up and down.  “You’re not so bad-looking either,” she said, and he chuckled.

“Whoever you’re waitin’ for better hurry up, or I might have to steal ya away.”

Tapping her chin, she pretended to consider this.  “I don’t know…  The fellow I’m meeting is rather handsome.”

“Yeah?  What does he do?”

This stumped her for a moment.  It didn’t help that his finger was tracing the length of hers in a highly distracting manner.  “He’s a bum, huh,” Roman surmised, his smile turning smug.

“Of course not!  He’s a successful salesman,” she said triumphantly, even giving her head a little toss.  Roman smirked before swiftly assuming a frown.

“Is that so?  I bet he’s a real snappy dresser.”  He looked down at his own outfit, the dark vest and long apron that she so appreciated.  Hana nibbled at her bottom lip; she knew it was unbecoming to stare, but she couldn’t help it.  She only tore her eyes away when his smirk returned.

“No,” she said piously, her eyes raised heavenward.  “He dresses modestly, and he does not waste money on fashionable clothes.’

“So he’s got lots left over to spend on you?”

“Well…no.”

“Ya mean he doesn’t buy you presents?”  His eyebrows shot up and he demanded, “He’s at least gonna pay for your lunch, right?”

“Probably not,” she admitted truthfully.

He shook his head in disbelief.  “He don’t deserve an angel like you.  Me, I’d treat you right: dinners at Delmonico’s, jewels, trips to the theater.”

“Mmm.  Delmonico’s sounds lovely.”

“Sweetheart, if you were my girl, I wouldn’t leave you sittin’ alone in a place like this.”  And true to his word he hadn’t.  She smiled and hooked her finger around his.  It would not take a keen observer to notice how long he’d dawdled in one spot; she hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble, but wasn’t eager for him to move on. “I’d do anything for you.”

“And what,” she asked, gazing up through her lashes at him, “would I do for you?”

He looked down at her with eyes too serious for their silly flirting.  “You’d make me very happy,” he murmured.  But then he smiled all slow and sly, and she thought her heart would thump right out of her chest.  “So what do ya say?  Wanna forget this kid an’ run away with me?”

Hana was saved from making some rash promise by the commotion that heralded Tumbler’s arrival.  He wasn’t alone, though; Gussie trailed after him, both of them with snow-dusted shoulders and hats.  In one glance Tumbler took in their undoubtedly blissful faces and linked hands, but his only response was a roll of his eyes and a faint sigh of disgust.  “Hey, kid,” Roman said as Tumbler took a seat across from Hana, who reluctantly withdrew her hand.  His eyebrows rose upon seeing Gussie join them.  “Who’s this?”

“Skitts, Gussie.  Gussie, Skitts.”  But his tone was less cold and disinterested than it had been a few days ago; she guessed Gussie was wearing him down.

“This’s your brother?” she asked Tumbler.  Her wide eyes were trained on Roman, though.

“Sure am.  Roman Kučera, but the newsies call me Skittery.”  He offered his hand with half a grin.  “I’d spit, but then Tibby’d probably fire me.”

“Probably?” Hana repeated under her breath.  Tumbler snickered.

Gussie giggled, too, though her mirth was not a response to Hana’s remark.  Not once since he’d spoken had her attention wavered from Roman.  After a not-so-surreptitious swipe against her coat she took his hand delicately.  “Augusta Frances Carmichael.  Very pleased to meet you,” she piped.

“Hear that, Tumbs?  Stick around her.  Maybe you’ll learn some manners,” he teased.  Gussie preened, while Tumbler responded with a rude gesture—once Roman’s attention was elsewhere.

“So, Miss Carmichael, you been to Tibby’s before?”  She shook her head vigorously.  “First sarsaparilla’s on me, then.  Special today’s corned beef.  Sound good?”  Now she nodded just as enthusiastically, her cheeks pink and eyes shining.  It was no wonder she did good business.

He could have brought her a glass of water from the river and a fish from the same and she would have devoured it all.  Hana wondered if anyone else had noticed the shift.  But Roman hadn’t heard of her infatuation with Tumbler in the first place, and Tumbler likely wouldn’t have recognized it at all without her constant presence; this change, though not subtle, could easily escape the boys’ observation.  As Roman smiled at them and sauntered off to put in their order, she understood all too well the way Gussie likely felt.  She’d felt the same way the first time she was confronted with Roman’s laughing eyes and the teasing tilt of his smile.

With a complete lack of self-consciousness, Gussie watched his progress through the room for the rest of lunch.  Tumbler frowned, chewing thoughtfully.  If he hadn’t noticed her interest before, surely he had now; and it became all the more obvious as they filed out of the restaurant and she began pelting him with questions.  

“How old’s your brother?”

“Lots older’n you.”

“Is he so old he’s married?”

“Almost.”

“He’s real handsome,” she sighed dreamily.

“That’s what his girl says, too.”  He shot her a dry look over the top of Gussie’s head.  Hana gave a little shrug; she couldn’t deny the charge, but didn’t feel particularly guilty about it, either.

The younger girl seemed not to notice the rather pointed mention of a sweetheart.  “What’s he like?” 

When Tumbler sighed it was not dreamy.  “You just saw him,” he said, flinging up his hands.  “He’s like that.  Except he’s usually lots grumpier.”  He looked at her again, and his expression fell short of accusatory.

Hana smiled at the memory of their fingers linked, his smile as he said  _Run away with me?_   Knowing that she had a part in his happiness filled her chest with warmth. 

“It’s okay if he’s grumpy,” Gussie said confidently, “I’m good at cheering people up.”

“Oh, yeah?”  The question betrayed no true curiosity.

“Yeah!”  She grinned up at him.  “I’ll prove it.  Gimme…”  She tilted her head, tongue poked between her teeth as she figured.  “…three minutes and you’ll be happy again.”

“Me?  I don’t need cheerin’ up.”

“Sure you do.  You aren’t smiling like usual, Tumbler.  An’ you got such a nice smile, it’s a shame not to share it.”  She spoke earnestly, and at her compliment Tumbler went pink and contorted his face in an effort not to smile.  When Hana waved goodbye, Gussie was telling jokes; she hadn’t yet rounded the corner when she heard Tumbler’s snort of laughter, soon joined by a tinkling giggle.

* * *

A few nights later, as they washed dishes after dinner, Roman remarked, “That new kid’s been in for lunch every day this week.  She must be doin’ alright.”  If that was indeed the case, Hana was genuinely glad to hear it; but she hoped Tumbler’s sales weren’t suffering, and wondered how the pair were faring now that Gussie’s affections had shifted.  

The next day it seemed she’d have the chance to find out.  She opened the door to the building to see not only Roman waiting for her but Tumbler and Gussie as well, and smiled beneath the scarf wrapped around her face.  Gussie was hopping up and down in the cold, pigtails bouncing, and Tumbler had on his new mittens, a Christmas gift from the C.A.S.  Hana made her way carefully down the steps to join them.

As soon as she was near enough Roman hooked a finger in the scarf and dragged it down.  “Hey,” he said against her lips, kissing her before she could reply.  The kiss was interrupted by a heartbroken wail; they both pulled away to find that its source was Gussie, lower lip protruding as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“What happened?” Roman demanded urgently; but when he took a step toward her she turned away, hiding her face in Tumbler’s coat.  Tumbler froze for a moment before hesitantly putting an arm around her.  When he glanced up it was with reproach in his eyes.  Roman looked from them to Hana with an expression of utter bafflement.

She tugged at his sleeve to draw him away, though it took a moment and a few glances over his shoulder.  When they were out of sight she quietly explained, watching pity fills his eyes, though his brows were still knit in confusion.

“I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head.  

“Roman,” she explained patiently, “you are handsome, and you were very nice to her at Tibby’s.”

“That’s it?”

“Girls are not so mysterious as you think.”  He looked back the way they’d come, though the others were out of sight, and sighed; his mouth was pulled down and his eyes sad at the idea that he’d hurt a child, even without meaning to.  Hana touched his cheek, turning him back to face her.  “She will be fine.  Please don’t worry,  _moja láska_.  You did nothing wrong.”

After that there was no sign of the lovelorn newsgirl for some days.  Roman reported that he and Tumbler had had a spirited discussion about the incident, with the younger suggesting that “none o’ this would’ve happened if you didn’t have to smooch Hana all the time!”  To this his brother had said that he’d understand one day, and Tumbler had retorted that he’d rather not, if it meant he was going to act like an idiot.  In Roman’s telling the dispute was resolved by a scuffle; though the claim did not leave her confident that anything had actually been resolved, Tumbler was as cordial as ever to her the next time they met.

Despite her assurance to Roman that Gussie would be fine, she hadn’t known what to expect from the girl.  When, on the way home, she saw them with papers held aloft, calling out questionable headlines, she wondered if it would be kinder to pass by or to stop; but when she was close enough to hear their conversation, curiosity won out.

Because Gussie was extolling the virtues of some other young man.  “Did you ever see eyes so blue?” she asked.  

_Blue?_  Hana mouthed.  Tumbler made a vaguely encouraging noise, seemingly all that was required of him, and nodded at Hana.

“And such nice curly hair?” Gussie went on.

“We ran into Dave earlier.”  He grinned, and Gussie sighed in rapture, and Hana threw back her head and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moja láska = my love
> 
> inspired by “Go Home, Girl!” by Gaelic Storm
> 
> JACK: You gotta watch out for those newsgirls!


	74. Winter (6 January 1905)

i.

“Ya have to admit, it sounds pretty unbelievable,” Roman said, respectful but skeptical, after Matej had explained each part of the creed, each person of the Trinity.  He’d listened with keen eyes, the mind behind them working—as if faith were of the brain and not the soul, as if it must be understood by the intellect in order to be embraced by the heart.

“What do you believe in?” Matej replied, the challenge mild and curiosity genuine.  And then, as if summoned, Hana appeared, basket of bread in hand; she laid it on the table, her eyes sweeping over the plates and cutlery already there to see if anything was missing, before returning to the kitchen.  

The way Roman’s eyes followed her was an answer in itself.

 

ii.

At her first lesson with Mrs. Hermann she’d chosen a wine-red wool to start with, thinking even then that the color would suit him.  Now the skein sat in her lap as she clumsily wound the yarn around one needle.

“What’re you gonna make?”

“A scarf will be easiest.”  He overestimated her ability if he expected anything else.  “And it will keep you warm.”  Maybe she’d have it finished by next winter.

He leaned closer, near enough that she shivered at his breath against her skin, his lips tickling her earlobe as he whispered to her.  “I know a better way you could keep me warm,” he suggested, voice low and dark; she giggled breathily.  Unconsciously she tipped her head away from him, purring when his mouth moved to just below her jaw, pulse spiking under the tantalizing brush of his lips.

Then there was the sound of a throat being cleared loudly.  Roman retreated and Hana righted her head, now swimming and spinning.  Mama fixed them with a disapproving look and, seeing it, Hana returned her attention to her knitting, trying in vain to shake off her distraction and figure out where she’d left off; but when she stole a sideways glance at Roman he was grinning, unrepentant.

 

iii.

Without even the illusion of grace or self-control Tumbler went skidding off across the ice, as heedless of others as he was of his own safety.  Hana and Roman followed, their movements more sedate but seeming no less confident.  Pauline paused at the edge of the pond, gloved hands twisted together in front of her; before her skaters glided and twirled, laughed and stumbled and chased.  From here it all looked so easy.

A touch at her elbow drew her attention away from the ice.  “You alright?” Calvin asked.

Steady, composed Calvin.  She really didn’t want to fall on her rear in front of him.  “I…may not be very good at skating,” she admitted.

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hand slipping down to take hers.  “And you think Tumbler is?” he asked, nodding in the boy’s direction.  He was spinning in place, alternating throwing his arms out and tucking them against his sides to change his speed; Pauline felt herself growing dizzy just watching him.  

“Besides,” Calvin went on, stepping forward and drawing her with him, “someone who dances as well as you shouldn’t be afraid of falling.”  He turned to face her, took her other hand in his, and together they made their way—tentatively, a little awkwardly, but surely—toward their friends.

Looking into his eyes, she knew she had nothing to fear.


	75. Meta: Hana/Skitts (Again)

**how did they first kiss?**  
[In an alley](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/161910145355/swoon-what-does-swoon-mean-the-unfamiliar), after a discussion about dime novel romance.  For the record, she did not swoon.

**who flirts more?**  
Skittery starts it more often.  Hana doesn’t have as much experience flirting, but she’s getting better.  Sometimes she feels slightly ridiculous, but it’s worth it to see his reactions.

**how did the relationship start?**  
When she heard that he was Bohemian, curiosity got the better of her and she struck up a conversation.  The more she heard about him the more interested she grew, and by the time [he and Tumbler came over for dinner](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/159877720355/priatelia-a-rodina-hana-and-her-family-belong-to) she was already fond of him, to say the least (and he was already ready to kiss her).  From there it was a date for dessert and a visit to Central Park, learning more about each other with every meeting and feeling their connection grow stronger.

**how did they start living together? do they move? how do they choose the place?**  
Even in a modern AU they wouldn’t live together until they got married.  They’d stay in the city at first, and cost would be the biggest factor in where they moved; especially as newlyweds they’d be living in a tiny place.  Later, when they have children, they might [move](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/164270174965/what-is-hanas-ideal-future-job-where-she) up to the Bronx or Westchester, or maybe out to Queens.  She doesn’t want to be too far from her parents, though.

**do they have roommates?**  
Right now Hana lives with her parents, and I believe Skitts has a roommate at the boardinghouse.  Once they get married Tumbler will likely stay with them, but he’s family.

**do they get married (or equivalent)?**  
They’re gonna get married if it’s the last thing I do.  She’s more prepared for marriage, having grown up in an actual family with good role models.  He’s got more to do before he’s ready: he’s just discovered that his siblings are alive and well, is working on adopting Tumbler, and honestly needs a better job.  But in terms of how they feel about each other, and how solid their relationship is, they’re pretty much there.

**do they have kids?**  
Not yet.  She wants children and always has; he’s slowly coming around to the idea.

**do they have pets?**  
No.

**do they act different in public and at home?**  
Sure.  It’s more pronounced with him; home is safe, and private.  He doesn’t have to worry (as much) there about other people seeing things that he wants to keep between the two of them, and he doesn’t have to be on his guard, ready to protect her and himself.

**big spoon/little spoon?**  
He’s big, she’s little.  That said…

**sleeping habits?**  
[He doesn’t like having blankets get tangled around him](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/146168906317/i-cant-find-the-ask-now-but-about-a-year-ago), so I can’t see him spending the night cuddled up to someone else.  But he likes having her nearby, and even if they’re not wrapped around each other, they’re close enough to touch.

**favorite non-sexual activity?**  
They just like being around each other, so whatever they do together is good.  Top two are reading and playing with each other’s hair, and these can be combined: imagine Skittery lying with his head in Hana’s lap, reading aloud as she winds her fingers through his hair, her free arm resting across his chest.  The only question is who’s going to fall asleep first.

**favorite sexual activity?**  
Not talking to strangers about it. :P  
Before they’re married the only thing that’s going to happen is kissing (okay, his hands have [wandered](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/167032272085/the-downpour-that-had-been-threatening-all-day) onto her bodice area, but he hasn’t gotten to second base yet).  Skittery is the more experienced of the two, though he’s never been with someone he loved before.  Because of that, he’s going to be  _so careful_  with Hana the first handful of times–to the extent that she eventually might have to remind him that she’s not that delicate.  They’re probably never going to do anything adventurous, though with time and experience she especially will get a little bolder, and neither has reason to complain.

**how often do they have sex?**  
More than she anticipated, to be honest–but that’s not a bad thing by any means.  It’s just that (to be utterly cliché) she’s never felt this way about anyone before: she never thought she’d want someone as much as she wants him, and never expected to be desired this way.  But they do have tiring jobs, and Skittery’s mental health presents issues, so it’s not as if they’re going at it multiple times a day, or even every day.  Still, she’s definitely satisfied.

**what habits of the other drives them crazy?**  
It occurred to me that this could be crazy as in “Please  _tell me_  next time you get something on your clothes so that I can try to work on them before the stain sets,” or it could be crazy as in “If you keep looking up at me through your eyelashes like that I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

**how often do they fight?**  
Not often.  They argue sometimes, but their big fights coincide with dips in his mood, and they often have to do with his perception of how well he’s able to take care of her.

**most trivial thing they fight over?**  
Probably whose turn it is to take out the garbage.  She doesn’t think it’s worth it to argue over stupid things, though.

**who uses all the hot water?**  
It takes longer to wash her hair, and he’s used to showering quickly.

**who does most of the cleaning?**  
Hana.  It’s much more efficient if she just does it without his help.

**what do they watch on tv and do they fight for the remote?**  
They’re not big on TV in general, so fighting over the remote isn’t likely.  Hana for sure has some of her favorite Slovak/Czech movies  ~~illegally downloaded~~ , like “ _Láska na vlasku_ ” and “ _Tři oříšky pro Popelku_.”  Skitts likes fact-based programs, but he’s probably also got a favorite sitcom.  I feel like they both probably like the movie “Stardust,” but who doesn’t?

**who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working?  
**Skittery.  If he’s paying for it, it better work.

**who answers the phone?**  
Hana.

**who steals the blankets?**  
She gets them to begin with.  If it’s cold enough, he snuggles up to her.

**who remembers things?**  
Neither of them is bad at it, but somehow he remembers things that she doesn’t even remember mentioning and uses them to surprise her.

**who does the groceries?**  
They like going together.

**who cooks normally?**  
Hana.  

**who leaves their stuff lying everywhere?**  
Neither of them, really.  She’s always been tidy and he’s never had that much to leave lying around.  But once they have their own place, he’d be more likely not to put things away.

**what kind of stuff can be found around their place?**  
[A framed map marked with their hometowns](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/169118172477/whatd-you-get-hana-for-christmas-skittery) in the Czech Republic and Slovakia.  [A portrait](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/167887888295/the-idea-had-come-to-her-a-few-months-ago-not) of Skittery and Tumbler.  Postcards and/or letters [from Iowa](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168931445417/christmas-1904).  Lots of secondhand books.  Some small knickknacks that she was able to bring from Slovakia, and the old family Bible.

**what do their cupboards or shelves look like?**  
By no means overflowing, but organized.  Once they have somewhere they can have bookshelves she’s going to start buying him books for any occasion when he needs a gift.

**what does their closet(s) look like?**  
Her things hung up neatly on one side, his slightly less tidily on the other.  Again, not overflowing, but sufficient, and only organized to the point where it’s easy to find things quickly in the morning.

**what do they do when they’re away from each other?**  
Their jobs? and errands?  [She goes to Mass without him](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/163888254865/the-other-week-i-discovered-the-answer-to-a), and spends time with Pauline; he hangs out with Tumbler and the other boys.  Their lives continue when they’re apart.  

**do they have nicknames or pet names for each other?**  
He calls her  _miláčku_  like a giant sap (knowing that [none of his friends can understand what he’s saying](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168260078817/dear-messrs-dutchy-and-specs-i-find-myself)…[not that that matters](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/166894097815/four-vignettesmore-i-%C4%8Fakujem-she-said)), and occasionally “Hanka.”  She’s less likely to use a term of endearment in public, but has been known to call him  _moja láska_  (my love),  _miláčik_  (sweetheart), and  _môj muž_  (my man); the first time she calls him  _môj muž_  is just after they’ve gotten engaged, and it’s safe to say that his reaction is positive and enthusiastic.

**how do they refer to the other in public? how do other people refer to the other? (i.e. “my partner”, “ask your father”, “dad and papa”, “how’s your wife?”, etc)**  
For now they’re both “My sweetheart” in polite company, while with their peers it’s “my/your girl/fellow.”  It’ll switch to “husband” and “wife” when they’re married.  Their kids will call her “Mama” (and Skittery will call her the diminutive “Maminka”), but he might be “Pop” or “Papa” instead of something Czech that might be a little too painful and hard to live up to.

**who is more likely to pay for dinner?**  
Skitts wants to, and Hana lets him most of the time.  But she’ll also find a way to get some of the money back to him if they go to [a pricey place](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/165384752495/perched-on-the-settee-with-her-hands-clasped).

**how often do they go on dates?**  
They try to get out and do something together at least once a week, even if it’s just taking a walk or visiting friends.

**typical date night? out or at home?**  
Going out feels more special.  Mrs. Procházka’s is their place, so they make sure to visit there every once in a while.  A lot of times frugality has to trump romance, though, so they need to keep their dates inexpensive (see above).

**do they celebrate birthdays, valentine’s day, anniversaries?**  
Hana’s birthday is a few days after Valentine’s, so she isn’t bothered about Valentine’s as a holiday.  They do remember each other’s birthdays and name days, and would do wedding anniversaries, but not just “the first time we went to the park together” or whatever.

**what would they get each other for gifts?**  
Thoughtful, meaningful things that show how much they pay attention to each other.

**how do they spend christmas and new year’s (or equivalent family gatherings)?**  
If they can, with family.  Part of Hana still wishes that she could have spent this past Christmas with the boys, so this year, she’ll make sure that the celebration is extra-special.  They’d be more likely to ring in the new year with the boys, or friends.

**who cusses more?**  
Skittery.

**what would they do if the other one was hurt?**  
She’d be better at keeping a level head, no matter how worried she was on the inside.  He’d smoke way too many cigarettes and probably blame himself for whatever happened. :(

**what are little gestures they do for each other?**  
Since money will always be a little tight, it’s more experiential than material.  So he’ll tell her funny things that happened at work, or about things he saw that reminded him of her, and she’ll ask him questions about things she thinks he’ll know about or is interested in.

**do they know how the other takes their coffee/tea?**  
She knows he likes his coffee first thing in the morning; that’s the important part.  He knows she prefers hers sweeter, and enjoys tea more than he does.

**do they feel they see each other enough, or do they have activities that take too much of their time?**  
Of course they’d like to see each other more, but they spend as much of their free time together as possible.

**do they friend/follow each other on facebook/tumblr/livejournal/skype/etc?**  
Skype for sure, particularly in the [summer work visa](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/166025540985/hanaskitts) version of the modern AU.  Hana’s on Facebook to keep up with friends and family in Slovakia, and she’s friends with Skitts, but he doesn’t use his much.

**(added) morning routine?**  
Coffee.  Hana gets up and makes it so that it’s ready when Skittery stumbles out of bed.  She can be dressed and ready to go before him–he’s a master of waiting until the last second to get up–though she doesn’t like leaving before he’s up unless it’s really necessary.  Has she ever gone to kiss him goodbye and gotten pulled back onto the bed and into his arms?  Yes she has.  Is she ever mad about it?  Nope.

**how do they make up after a fight?**  
She apologizes easily if she comes to believe she was in the wrong, and makes him his favorite dinner or dessert.  He’d have to work hard to recognize if he hurt her with anything he said during the fight, and would try to remember what he said that upset her so as not to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: ARE SOME O’ THESE QUESTIONS ANACHRONISTIC FOR THIS PAPERLESS PAPE THING? SURE! HAS THAT EVER STOPPED US BEFORE? HECK NO! SO PLEASE INDULGE YOUR ROMANCE-LOVIN’ SWOONIN’ SELVES IN THIS SURVEY O’ SKITTS AND HANA!


	76. Ako sa povie (17 January 1905)

The story was familiar, one she’d heard time and again.  Sometimes, with passages she knew so well, she tried to translate them into English in her head.  It was good practice, she thought, even if not all of the words in the Mass were ones she’d be able to use as she went about her everyday business.  It also gave her the opportunity to share parts of the service with Roman, since more than once she had no idea how to translate a word and had to ask him about it afterward.  By now he seemed used to his Sunday afternoon hello being met with an insistent “ _Ako sa to povie po anglicky?_ ” and a hymnal thrust under his nose.  Clever as he was, he didn’t always know the answer, and together they’d try to puzzle out the answer, in a mixture of Czech and Slovak and English.  (“ _Vzkriesenie_ ” had posed a particular challenge.  It was “resurrection,” they’d eventually learned, though it had taken asking the priest to reach that conclusion.)

This reading was fairly simple: it was the story of God and a man and a woman, of the earth and the animals and a garden.  Words for real things were easier to learn, and these—tree and river and birds and sleep—she knew in English.

“… _a budú jedno telo_ ,” Mr. Boháčik intoned, and she felt her bones turn to fire.  Her breath caught as the words echoed in her head.  Floundering for logical thought, she forced herself to translate the verse: A man will leave his mother and father and—hold? no, cling—cling to his woman, and they will be one body.  Her hands trembled; she clasped them tightly in her lap.  In that instant she wished he were there to hear those words, longed to see his reaction to them; in the next, mortified at such a brazen thought, was relieved that he wasn’t.  More than anything she hoped fervently that her face did not betray the heat that inflamed her.  For the rest of the service she clutched the edge of the pew, fingers digging into the wood as she tried not to dwell on the idea, fought to quell the impatience that suddenly surged inside.

“Any new words at church today?” he asked that evening.

Hana shook her head.  “No new words.”  Nothing she hadn’t already known, she thought, stepping into his embrace, winding her arms around his back and clinging to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ako sa to povie po anglicky? = How do you say this in English?
> 
> JACK: When I was a kid and Race’s Great-Aunt Agnes would take us to Mass, I too had hymnals thrust under my nose every Sunday.
> 
> It weren’t ‘cause Aunt Agnes was tryin’ to translate the words, though. She meant “QUIT YOUR TATTERARA AN’ SING WHAT YOU’RE S’PPOSED TO!”


	77. A Portrait by Jack (22 January 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

[ ](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/image/170021053502)

After Les started passin’ on lots o’ stories about Skitts findin’ a girl from Slovakia, I decided to look up how girls over there dressed and wore their hair and stuff and tried makin’ a picture.  ‘Course, once [we actually met her](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/162493047152/pandolfo-malatesta-introductions-her-steps), I found out she looked like [this](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/165292357150/an-attempt-at-coloring-this-photo) instead–but by then the paintin’ was half-done, so you fellas get to see it anyway.

…Just in case you were wonderin’, Hana didn’t wear a giant hat to Mrs. Procházka’s.


	78. The Alcove (22 January 1905)

“Just a little longer,” he implored.

“Mama will wonder what is taking so long.”

It was, on second thought, a silly thing to say.  Of course she knew that they hadn’t been that eager just to go pick up the tea she’d forgotten to buy.  Of course she knew that the longer winter wore on, the more crowded the apartment felt.  Of course she knew what was taking so long.

Despite her words, Hana had followed willingly when he’d tugged her into the little alcove behind the stairs, silently thanking Tumbler once again for bringing it to their attention.  The alcove, a catch-all space for the building’s detritus–a buggy wheel, lengths of pipe, dried-out tins of paint–was a perfect hiding spot for hide-and-go-seek if you were eleven, or an ideal place to steal a private moment with your sweetheart if you were slightly older.  It was not comfortable to stand in for longer than a few minutes, but she considered it a blessed oasis, even if there was part of a brass headboard pressed into her side.

Because she was pressed against Roman’s front, the sack containing Mama’s tea at their feet.  He’d kissed her slowly, one hand cupping her jaw, only stopping when she thought her lungs would burst; then he’d rested his forehead against hers, the both of them catching their breath.  The scent of turpentine lingered in the alcove, but it faded when they were this close, when she could smell his soap and sweat, could still taste the coffee on his tongue.  The next kiss was hers, a whisper-light brush of lips; she smoothed her thumbs up his cheekbones, followed the caress with kisses that traveled up to his temple, into his unruly hair.  Roman let out a sigh of bliss and dropped his head to her shoulder, cinching his arms around her waist as she rubbed his back.  So contented was he that he barely even jumped at the heavy footsteps stomping overhead.

Was this so wrong?  It didn’t feel wrong–holding him never had, no matter what the world and her parents might think.  One day, she thought; one day there’d be no more alcoves, no more judgment, no more errands with ulterior motives.  It would just be her holding him, for as long as they wanted. 

“One day,” he repeated, his nose cold against her neck, and though she hadn’t meant to speak aloud she didn’t regret that he’d heard.  She tightened her arms around him and closed her eyes. 

Just a little longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: I’D SAY THIS ALCOVE QUALIFIES AS A LOVENEST!!!!!!!!!


	79. New Opportunity (27 January 1905)

Hana hurried to the sitting room, though she paused just outside to make sure her apron was straight before she entered.  “Oh, there you are,” said Mrs. Vande Kerk, as if hours rather than mere moments had passed since she’d summoned her.  “Miss Beaumont, this is Hannah.  Hannah, Miss Beaumont.”

The young lady who rose from where she’d been perched on the edge of the armchair looked around Hana’s age. That was the extent of any similarity between the two, though, because this Miss Beaumont was slim and blonde and quite obviously wealthy, dressed in an understated outfit that would turn Pauline green with envy. All the same, her smile looked genuine.  “Hello,” she said.  Hana bobbed her head in reply.

Mrs. Vande Kerk stood, with much less ease and elegance than the visitor had.  “I’ll leave you to talk,” she told Miss Beaumont.  “Hannah will find me in the library when you’re done.”

Once she’d swept away the young lady offered her hand.  “Grace Beaumont.”

“Hana Kollár.”  She freed her twisting hands to shake Miss Beaumont’s.  Her handshake was not the limp, wilting clasp that society ladies favored.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Hana.”  It did not escape Hana’s notice that Miss Beaumont mimicked the proper pronunciation of her name far better than any of the Vande Kerks ever had.  “Jeannette Vande Kerk speaks well of your work,” Miss Beaumont continued, resuming her seat; Hana, still standing, murmured a thank you.  “Have a seat, won’t you?”  Miss Beaumont gestured graciously to the velvet settee.

She’d cleaned that settee often enough but had never sat on it.  As surreptitiously as possible she brushed off her skirt before sitting gingerly; the cushion was unyielding.  Why would anyone, particularly anyone as well-off as Mr. and Mrs. Vande Kerk, buy furniture so uncomfortable?  Then again, she knew that the lace doilies on the arms covered threadbare spots; maybe the settee was an heirloom, handed down over the years, priceless.  The thought froze her in place.   

“Please forgive my bluntness,” Miss Beaumont began, “but I don’t want to keep you too long from your work. My fiancé and I are setting up our household and are in need of a conscientious, dependable young woman to come in and clean for us a few times a week.  According to Mrs. Vande Kerk, you fit that description to a tee.”

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice distant as her mind worked.  To tell the truth, she’d been thinking that she ought to pick up more work somewhere; having a sweetheart was more expensive than she’d realized.  Of course he and Tumbler were worth all that she spent on them, but her savings were less robust now than before she’d met them.  For the sake of her future, whatever it held in store, she had to put more away.  This could be the opportunity she’d been hoping for.  It certainly seemed providential.

She was aware of Miss Beaumont’s lively eyes watching her.  “If you’d like, you can come by and see the house before you decide.  It’s not too big—”  Which meant, Hana was sure, that their apartment would fit in it a dozen times over.  “—and not all of the furniture has arrived yet.  But Thomas and I are neat enough, so I don’t imagine it would be too much work.”  

In the few minutes that she’d known Miss Beaumont, Hana had formed a positive impression of her; though she was wealthy, she’d shaken hands with Hana like the two were equals, and she hadn’t mispronounced her name.  That alone was enough to make Hana feel kindly toward her.  Miss Beaumont was also friendly and gracious, and, despite the fact that Mama and Roman would warn her not to be so trusting, Hana knew her mind was all but made up.

“I would like that,” she said, and finally returned Miss Beaumont’s smile.

* * *

Once the meal had been blessed and everyone’s mouths were full, Hana swallowed and said, “A friend of Mrs. Vande Kerk came by today.  She will need a cleaner soon, and Mrs. Vande Kerk recommended me.”

“This is good,” Tatko said with a nod.  “We are proud of you, Hanka.”

Mama was beaming.  “When will you start?” 

“I did not say yes yet.  I will go to see the house tomorrow.  And I must speak to Mr. Howard and the Roths, to ask if my schedule can be changed.”  Mr. Howard couldn’t possibly say no, not when Mrs. Vande Kerk had recommended her to Miss Beaumont in the first place; nor did she expect Mrs. Roth to object.

“But you’re gonna do it.”

She answered Roman’s statement as if it had been a question.  “I think yes.  Miss Beaumont will be a good boss.  She talked to me more in ten minutes today than Mrs. Vande Kerk did in all the time I have worked for her.”

He stabbed a chunk of potato with unnecessary force.  “I don’t like it,” he said.  “You shouldn’t have to work so hard.  Three jobs?  It’s too much.”  Chewing furiously, he glowered at his plate.  

There was no way to answer his accusation, at least not any way that would satisfy him.  She glanced at Mama, and then Tatko; the hard line of her mother’s mouth showed her unsympathetic, though whether to Hana or Roman she could not tell, while her father’s eyes were concerned.  It would be a waste of time to wish that she were like Miss Beaumont, rich and beautiful and still kind, though if she were, how much easier it would be for them all.  At the same time, she’d overheard enough arguments and gossip at the Vande Kerks’ to know that the wealthy were beleaguered with their own tribulations.  At least, she thought a little giddily, she’d never have to worry about anyone marrying her solely for her money.

Her parents kept quiet, eating steadily, their eyes on her.  “I am healthy, and strong,” Hana answered at last.  It was mostly addressed to her fork; then she turned to Roman to ask, “Why not earn money now, when I am able to work hard, so that I can rest later?”  Later: when she might have babies to nurse, a home of her own to keep.  His only answer was a grunt.

He didn’t linger long after they’d finished.  She followed him to the door, where, still pulling on his coat, he gave her a perfunctory kiss.  Hana knew that he wasn’t angry with her but with life, with the world that sentenced some to decades of toil and hardship while others spent their days in leisure.  Once he’d gotten the coat on she tugged gently on his lapels, murmuring his name; he sighed and met her eyes.  

“You deserve better than this, workin’ all o’ the time, cleanin’ up other peoples’ houses,” he said.  “I want what’s best for ya, an’ maybe…”  Breaking the gaze he dragged a hand down his face.  “Maybe it ain’t me.”

Her grip on his coat slackened for a moment as her shoulders slumped.  She knew better than to let go, though, so she tightened her fingers around the fabric again.  “Don’t you trust me?”

In answer he gave her a look that said she was a fool to even ask, mouth twisted sardonically and eyebrows raised.  “Yeah.  So?”

“So trust that I can make good decisions about my life.  About who I work for, and when, and about who I love.”  She met his eyes, gaze calm and steady.

He sighed again, unwilling to relent just yet, his jaw still tense and eyes clouded.  Not for the first time she said a prayer as she watched him, silently pleading for more time.  When he raised his hand and closed his fingers around her wrists she thought he would pull them away, would stalk out of the apartment, and her heartbeat raced; instead his thumbs stroked the undersides of her wrists until she released her hold to flatten her palms against his chest.  His frown didn’t disappear but did ease somewhat, and when she pushed up on her toes to give him a proper kiss goodnight his mouth softened under hers.  

* * *

Where did rich people get their money, she wondered as she stepped off the trolley.  It would take her several lifetimes of work to amass enough to live in a neighborhood like this.  Ladies like Miss Beaumont didn’t work; it was beneath them, but somehow expected of women like Hana.  It was just as well, she supposed.  A life of leisure wouldn’t suit her.

“Good morning!” Miss Beaumont called cheerily.  The same brisk wind that colored her cheeks had pulled a few strands of hair free from beneath her hat; they now danced around her face, and she pushed them back carelessly.  She seemed genuinely pleased when she said, “Thank you for coming.”

If Hana took the job, this would be the last time she walked through the front door.  She took advantage of the opportunity, following Miss Beaumont up the wide, even steps to the stately door.  Once inside, where it was cool enough that they kept their coats on, a staircase of dark wood wound up to the second floor.  Miss Beaumont led the way through the rooms, naming them: the breakfast room, Thomas’ study, the music room awaiting delivery of a piano, and at the top of the stairs a pair of bedrooms and the master suite with a smaller bedroom just across the hall, near enough to hear a baby’s cry.  What little furniture had been moved in already—a sideboard, a pair of armchairs, a heavy desk in the study—was draped in dustcloths.  In her mind Hana added thick rugs covering the floors, a crystal chandelier in the dining room, drapes on the windows and lots of electric light; it would be a near-constant task to keep the glass in the conservatory sparkling, and there was already plenty of woodwork and brass to polish.  She’d no doubt she would earn her pay, but knew she was up to the task.

They paused in the parlor downstairs.  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you something to drink.  Or even a seat.  My career as a hostess is off to a roaring start.”  Miss Beaumont’s easy laughter rang in the empty room, and Hana smiled, looking around.  This was the only room with any decoration; a single picture hung above the still-immaculate fireplace.  Even in its handsome frame the picture looked humble against the wallpaper, with its golden roses on a cream background.  There was obviously something special about this picture, that it was given pride of place in the house, that it was its first ornament.  Miss Beaumont’s face glowed with pleasure when she saw Hana’s gaze drawn to it.

“My friend Jack drew that for me,” she explained, stepping toward the fireplace.  When Hana followed the scene coalesced into a pair of horses, one a brownish red and the other a nearly pearlescent grey.  The horses could hardly have been more different; the darker one was stocky and solid, its hair coarse, with something indescribably American about its expression.  It looked too short to pull a wagon, particularly next to the long-legged, aristocratic grey.  With only a few colored pencils the artist had rendered the animals with an attention to detail that spoke of a long familiarity with them.  Miss Beaumont’s voice was warm as she said, “That’s Jack’s mare Nell, and my Silver.”

A mean part of Hana huffed that of course Miss Beaumont had a horse, but it was quickly drowned out by curiosity.  Nell wasn’t an uncommon name in New York, nor was Jack.  But she’d heard them together before, for a horse and an artist, and had seen that scrawl of a signature somewhere before, too…

“Jack Kelly?”  She leaned back, looking at Miss Beaumont in shock.  “ _You_  are friends with Jack Kelly?”

Miss Beaumont broke out in a grin.  “I hope that doesn’t change your opinion of me,” she laughed.  “I wonder if there’s anyone in this city who doesn’t know Jack Kelly.  If there is, I daresay they aren’t worth knowing.  Jack and Sarah are good people, don’t you agree?”  There was a subtle sharpness to the question.  At Sarah’s name Hana relaxed, the worry that Miss Beaumont was an old sweetheart of Jack’s fleeing; now she wondered why anyone might think the Kellys were anything other than kind and decent.

“I admire them, very much,” she said earnestly.  When Miss Beaumont nodded it was with evident satisfaction, and Hana had the feeling that she’d passed an important test.

“You must tell me later how you met.  As for me, I had no choice but to spend time with Jack, since Silver and Nell were such friends.”  Her eyes sparkled at the jest, and she cocked her head to study Hana.  “I hadn’t had any doubts about you before, but now I won’t take no for an answer.  What do you say?  Would you like to work here?”

For a friend of Jack’s, a considerate young woman who loved to laugh?  Hana stuck out her hand.  “I would like it very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace Beaumont belongs to jackcowboyhero.
> 
> It’s common in Slovak to ask questions in the negative. For example, one might ask “Doesn’t anyone have a pencil I can borrow?” or “Don’t you know when the bus comes?” Unfortunately, this can sound condescending in English.


	80. Secrets (13 February 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

“…Can I talk to you?”

Hana looked up, and for a second I thought she was going to say that we’d  _been_ talking.  We’d been talking all evening.  Why ask now, on the front steps of her apartment building at the end of a long day?

But instead her eyes only softened, and she said, “Of course.”

But I couldn’t talk. Not there, not in the open, not where anyone could come and go and make us move—

So I tugged her inside and into the [alcove behind the stairs,](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/170022281012/pandolfo-malatesta-just-a-little-longer-he) where it was cramped and dusty but at least kind of private, and I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and looked at the floor and mumbled, “I shoulda told ya when ya came back at Christmas…”

She put her hands on the crooks of my arms, and even through her mittens and my coat they felt warm. “What is it?”

And I didn’t know how to explain it, but explaining was easier than trying to keep anything from her when she gave me that face.  When she looks up at ya like that, like she’s willing to stand there and hear out whatever ya say and won’t move ‘til she hears it, there’s nothin’ a fella can do but give in.

“…Ya know how I said my brothers and sister were out west somewhere?”

Her fingers tightened just the smallest bit, and I could’ve kicked myself—she was worried, and so was I, and—

So before I could think too much I said “Jack found ‘em.”

Hana gave a little gasp, but right then it was plain that it wasn’t from fear—a smile broke out across her face, and the squeeze on my arms was encouraging, and she asked, “Naozaj?”

I nodded, and as soon as I did Hana was up on her tiptoes and kissin’ me.  “Roman, moja láska, toto je výborne!  A všetky sú dobrý?”

I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t that.  The knots in my stomach calmed down, and I finally looked at her, and for the first time it felt like maybe I could smile about it too.

“Have you talked to them?” she asked.  “Where are they?”

“Iowa,” I said. “It’s…farther’n Pittsburgh.  A thousand miles.”

Her thumb in her mitten moved over my cheek, and I stepped closer to her as she murmured, “Could you write?”

“I don’t know what to say.” I’d gone through enough paper to fuel our fires all winter, every line scratched out and blotted-up until even Kloppman, who says he can read any boy’s handwriting, wouldn’t be able to pick anythin’ out.  And nothin’d ever seemed right.

“Then,” Hana said, “I will help you.”

“You will?”

Well, I knew that look too. It meant, “Of course I will, stupid! I’m the best girl a fella could ask for.”

But she didn’t say that out loud—she just took my hand.  “Come on.”

“Your folks ain’t gonna like me stayin’,” I said, “it’s late.”

“Then we will meet after work tomorrow,” she said, “and the next day too, and after that, if we have to.”

“…You mean it?”

“Don’t you believe me?”

She hadn’t let go, and one side of her mouth was quirked up, and I knew I’d be stupid to say no.  So instead I kissed her, and she laughed, and even though it took us a little while to make it upstairs after that, we finally sat down and she got out some paper.  And it took us three days of work, but finally two letters were on their way out to Iowa.

“What if they don’t answer?” I asked her, after the letters were in the mailbox where I couldn’t get ‘em back out again.

“We will try again.” She squeezed my hand.  “And we will keep trying.  You deserve to find each other again.”

There’s some days when I wouldn’t believe that.  But right then I nodded.  “I mean…at least I got you,” I said after a minute.  “And Tumbs.  Even if they don’t write back.”

She kissed me.  “They will write back,” she promised.  “But yes…you will always have us.”

And I kissed her, pulling her out of the crowd to hold her.  “You’re everythin’.”

Because if Miloš or Máša and Jonáš write back, it’ll be good.  But if they don’t, things are still gonna be good.

I just gotta keep thinkin’ about that, and not all the things that could go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naozaj? = Really?
> 
> Moja láska = my love
> 
> Toto je výborne! = That’s excellent!
> 
> A všetky sú dobrý? = And they are all good?


	81. Iowa (13 February 1905)

_[Farther than Pittsburgh](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/170824853557/secrets-by-skittery)_.

It took a while for that to sink in.  At first she was worried, afraid of the thing that had been distracting him all evening, of the news he’d kept to himself for too long; but then in a rush it was out, and after relief coursed through her it was followed by a swell of happiness.  He’d found them—he and Jack had, somehow, and Roman knew that his brothers and sister were alive, and where they were.  Once he’d told her and seen her smile in response to the revelation a weight fell from his shoulders.  

After a few celebratory kisses he said, “I wasn’t tryin’ to keep it from ya, I just…”  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then shrugged.  “Didn’t know how to tell ya.  I’m not used to tellin’ other people stuff.”  He huffed out an almost-laugh, peeking up through his lashes at her. 

“I want to know about your stuff.  Good or bad, you can tell me anything.  You know this.”  With her mittened hand she raised his chin, then chucked him gently.

“Yeah.”  He grinned sheepishly, adding, “Thanks.”

Not long after that he escorted her upstairs, arm around her waist as they climbed.  Outside the door she stepped close to him to say softly, “I am so happy for you, Roman.”  It was a surprise to hear her own voice so thick, and a surprise to feel tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.  He raised his hands to cup her cheeks and tenderly brush the moisture from her cheeks, his lips curved up ever so slightly at the edges; and she turned her head to kiss his palm.  Though words seemed to have fled him, she understood the message in the fullness of his eyes and the faint trembling of his fingertips.

Inside she cleared a spot on the table as Roman shrugged out of his coat and hunted a pen from his pocket.  When they sat down at the table, a few sheets of paper in front of them, rather than taking their customary places on the settee, Tatko asked, “ _Čo robite, deti?_ ”

She looked at Roman and he looked at her, his eyes flashing wide at the appellation.  It was his story to tell, and she wouldn’t betray his confidence, even to her parents; but she wondered what he’d say, and though she didn’t expect him to reveal much, she hoped he’d tell them something substantial.  He swallowed.  “Writin’ a letter,” he said, voice somehow even, “to my sister and brothers.”

It was then Tatko and Mama’s turn to exchange glances.  Hana held her breath until one of them responded; she was relieved when it was Tatko, who asked, “They live far away?”

Roman nodded.  “Too far to visit, an’ I haven’t seen ’em in a while.”

She snuck a look at her mother, hoping that she would be able to rein in her curiosity, and was surprised to see sympathy in her eyes.  Mama squeezed Tatko’s shoulder; when he looked in her direction she inclined her head toward the bedroom.  Finger in his book to hold his place he rose and followed her, giving Hana and Roman as much privacy as an open door between the rooms could afford.

When Hana returned her attention to the table she saw Roman staring at the blank papers, pen gripped tightly in his left hand.  It came to her that she should write a letter too, to Jack, thanking him for finding the rest of the Kučeras.  Before her emotions—that gratitude, and pride, and relief, and joy—could overwhelm her, she scooted her chair closer to Roman’s.  “Where do we start?”  

He gave her an appreciative smile.  “At the beginnin’, I guess,” he said, his grasp on the pen loosening.  His face took on a thoughtful expression as he wrote  _February 1905, New York City_  at the top of a blank page.

They hadn’t finished by the time he left, and she reiterated her earlier promise that they would persevere.  Later, after he’d kissed her goodnight and she was getting ready for bed, she discovered a smear of ink on her jaw.  If only it wouldn’t stain her pillowcase, she would happily bear the evidence of his touch.

In her dreams she again felt the rocking of a train pulling west.

* * *

That first evening she heard how he’d found his siblings again.  He admitted reluctantly that he’d [asked Jack for help](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/168522919187/orphan-train), since the Children’s Aid Society ran both the farm he worked on and the orphan train that had sent the siblings west.  Hana put a hand on his arm.  “I am proud of you for asking.”

“Shoulda done it sooner,” he mumbled.  His face screwed up in chagrin.  “An’ that’s all I did; Jack did the real work.  I owe him big.  I don’t know how…”  He sighed, shoulders slumping again.  “I gotta pay him back somehow.”

“I think he was probably happy to do it.  And he will be happy to hear about what happens.”  She squeezed his arm before letting go. 

Over the next two evenings, as they wrote and read and discussed, little things about his siblings slipped out.  “Me an’ Tata used to laugh because even though they’re twins, Jonáš was a prettier baby than Máša.  He looked like a little doll.  But Máša was the only girl, so she was special.”  As he smiled fondly she pictured him a boy himself, holding his baby sister, smiling that same smile at her.  And later he told her how Miloš had gotten miserably sick after eating a whole basket of cherries they’d picked with their mother from their grandparents’ trees, and how he’d never been able to eat anything with cherries in it afterward.

Her parents kept out of their way and, what was more, didn’t demand details as soon as he’d left.  Of course, they likely heard everything that was said, even from the bedroom, but they were well within their rights to want answers, and she was grateful that they didn’t press.  A few times she’d noticed Mama’s expression as she passed through the room; her usual suspicion and speculation were softened as her eyes lit on Roman.  It was selfish to think, but maybe that—that compassion, that acceptance—was the best thing that would come out of this, particularly if the letters garnered no response.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the end of her selfishness.  At first her questions were general: Did Miloš and Jonáš look like Roman?  Were they his height, and had Miloš grown strong and broad from working on his farm?  Did Máša have the same hair as Roman—could she keep it tidily braided, or were wisps forever flying out and curling around her face?  Did she have a friend like Pauline, someone to share secrets with?  But from mere curiosity the questions swiftly drew closer to home, to wondering what the siblings would think of the letters, and of Roman; to how he might react if they answered, and how he would if they didn’t. 

Her insides seized up at the idea.  He had hope now; they wouldn’t be so cruel as to crush it, would they?  Rejection from any of them might do more damage to him than she cared to imagine.  She wasn’t sure her love alone could keep him from sinking into that pain, could save him from slipping beneath it.  For both of their sakes she had to believe that the letters would arrive in Iowa as a joyful surprise, and that the response that was sure to come would be warm.  

Worst of all, she wondered if she would still be enough.  He’d said she was everything, but how could she be, when they’d barely known each other a year?  How could she be more important than his family?  Heaped atop the doubt was guilt at doubting him, all leaden and heavy and hard to shake off.  If he could have his family back, if he decided that his place was with his blood, somewhere to the west, she could hardly blame him.  Her heart would break, but she would understand.

Through her fitful sleep echoed the clacking of iron wheels on rails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Čo robite, deti? = What are you doing, children?


	82. Valentines (14 February 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

 

 

 

> _Roman,_  
>  _Milujem ťa, nielen dnes, ale každý deň._  
>  _Hana_

 

_Moje Hana,  
_

_Já nevím, pokud to vypadá jako Revúca, ale doufám, že ano, a já doufám, že víte, že jste ke mně domů.  
_

_Tvoje Roman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman,  
> I love you, not just today, but every day.  
> Hana
> 
> My Hana,  
> I don’t know if this looks like Revuca, but I hope so, and I hope you know that you are home to me.  
> Your Roman.


	83. St. Valentine's Day (14 February 1905)

Pauline Hermann was at a loss. 

Valentine’s Day was coming swiftly, Cupid borne on winter gusts.  She’d always looked forward to the day, doing her hair up in pink ribbons and donning her frilliest dress; it had ever been a day that proved her popularity among her circle.  But now, through tragedy and blessing alike, her circle had shrunk somewhat, and she found that rather than the thrill of anticipation, the looming prospect of February 14th tied her stomach in knots.

Previous holidays had found her receiving cards by the handful and doling out her own handmade lace-edged confections.  She and her friends—though now, knowing Hana and Roman and Andy, it was clear that they had been acquaintances, really—had gone to parties where they’d played silly games and danced and flirted.  It was awfully considerate of St. Valentine to have his feast day in the middle of winter, when the grey days longed for something to enliven them.  

Now her eighteenth year found her fretting.  This year was her first with a serious beau.  The fact was less pleasing than it ought to be, though.  This year she was guaranteed the company of an industrious, charming, handsome young man; she knew their conversation would be sparkling, that they would laugh and share lingering glances across the table.  She knew that Calvin would say or do something to surprise and delight her, that when he took her arm she would feel something in her veins best described as incandescence.  She knew that he would most likely give her some small, thoughtful gift, something that would fill her with quiet joy whenever she saw it. 

She had no idea what to give him in return. 

“What are you getting Roman?” she asked.  

“Getting him?”

“For Valentine’s Day.  You know, the holiday celebrating love and romance?”

Hana raised one shoulder, turning over a page in her magazine.  “I will get him a card.”  

“A card?” Pauline scoffed.  “On the most romantic day of the year?  What will it say?  ‘My darling Roman, you are the light of my days.  None other can compare to you: your manly arms, your handsome visage, your courtly ways.  I love you deeply—passionately—eternally.  With all of my heart, Hana.’”  She threw a hand to her forehead and slumped back in her chair in a mock swoon.

Hana snorted.  “Do you think Roman—Roman Kučera, yes?—wants me to make a…a big circus to show how much I love him?”  Pauline had to agree that this seemed unlikely; Roman didn’t seem interested in grand gestures.  Hana went on, “He knows this already.  What he wants is a trip to Mrs. Procházka’s for sweet things, so that is what he’ll get.”  With her sudden, secret smile, it wasn’t hard to ascertain that the sweet things would include kisses, some as light and soft as meringues and others the richness of dark chocolate.  The idea of the latter, of Calvin kissing her deeply, without restraint or regard for propriety, sent her stomach tumbling over itself.

“What do you think he’ll get you?  Flowers?  Chocolate?  A ring?” she only half teased. 

Her “No” was steady, decided and quiet.  There was a longing on her face that took Pauline aback, a cloud of melancholy muddying her hazel eyes for the briefest moment.  Then it all quickly fled, or more likely was banished, and in its place settled a more familiar expression, one of determination.  Pauline lowered her eyes.  If anything was wrong, Hana would tell her, wouldn’t she?—but perhaps she wouldn’t, not wanting to burden her friend.  In the future Pauline would guard her tongue more closely.  Anything to keep from seeing that look on Hana’s face again. 

Pauline took a quiet breath, and when she spoke again her tone was light.  “It hardly matters anyway,” she said, “because it couldn’t possibly outdo what I got you for your birthday.”  She gave Hana a puckish smile, and was relieved at the answering chuckle.

* * *

“What’re you getting that fella of yours?” Letty demanded.  To judge by the intensity of the question, anyone else would believe she actually cared about the answer, or the couple concerned.

“I haven’t decided yet” was her airy reply.

“Huh.  How long have you been walking out with him now?”

“Since September.”  Nearly half a year.  Her heart leapt into her throat and she clutched the edge of the counter.  She clamped her mouth shut tightly, unwilling to let Letty see her dreamy expression.

“And he spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve with you,” Letty went on, her gaze no less shrewd for being out of the corner of her eye.  Pauline knew that from now on she’d have to be more careful about what she talked about at work, and who might be listening.

“Yes,” she allowed, returning to her folding.

“Sounds serious.”  Letty’s tone was derisive.  For a moment Pauline thought that Letty’s cavalier attitude toward the opposite sex meant that she and Kid Blink would make a good match; then she felt mean for thinking so little of Blink.  “And you haven’t…”

She hated herself for taking the bait.  “Haven’t what?”  Her question was met with suspicious silence, and she looked up to see Letty’s eyebrows waggling, a leer twisting her lips.  “Absolutely not!” Pauline cried.  Her shoulders stiffened.  “Not that it’s remotely any of your business.”

Her icy tone would have warned off anyone with an ounce of shame or concept of privacy; as Letty had neither, she was undeterred.  “You can’t keep a fella if you don’t give him something to look forward to,” she advised with pretended concern, putting a hand on Pauline’s arm.  “He’ll lose interest if you don’t give him a little taste of what he’s missing.”  To make sure Pauline understood what she was insinuating Letty trailed a finger up her arm; and when Pauline shook her off, Letty’s hand darted down and pinched her rear.  Pauline shrieked, more from surprise than pain, and Letty cackled.

“How dare you?” Pauline demanded, her voice shaking with indignation.  She did her best to ignore the stinging in her behind.

Still sniggering, Letty held up her hands in surrender.  “I’m just trying to help,” she claimed.  “Don’t blame me if loverboy decides he wants someone less…”  Her gaze, razor-sharp, clawed at Pauline.  “Clammy.”

She slunk away, leaving Pauline feeling small and hollow. 

* * *

Pauline’s eyes kept darting from the pages of the magazine in her lap to Hana, who was knitting slowly, to the corners of the room.  After a few minutes Hana raised an eyebrow and asked, “Can I help you?” with a smile tugging at her lips.

Though she knew her parents were out Pauline glanced over her shoulder again before scooting closer to her friend.  Without preamble she said, “You like kissing Roman, don’t you?”

This had clearly not been what she was expecting; the needles dropped into her lap and her hands remained in midair as she sputtered “What?”

“I know it seems like a silly question, since you spend so much time doing it,” Pauline pressed on, ignoring Hana’s wide eyes and gaping mouth.  “So you must enjoy it, right?”

Eventually she closed her mouth.  “Yes,” she admitted, cheeks flushed; but then her brow knit in concern.  “Don’t you like kissing Calvin?”

“Oh, yes!”  Pauline felt her face flame at the eager enthusiasm of her answer, and Hana chuckled.   _In for a penny_ , Pauline thought, and swallowed her pride to ask, “Have you ever…done more than kissing?  Not that you—either of you—would ever do anything indecorous, of course,” she rushed on, “just…”  She waved her hands vaguely in the hopes Hana understood.

Hana looked at her then, and Pauline felt every day of the years between them. Recently her friend seemed different; maybe it was just that Hana was tired, but there was something in her bearing that seemed more mature—or maybe it was Pauline who was maturing, and only just now recognizing Hana’s wisdom.  Her eyes were understanding, the pink of her cheeks making them seem greener than usual.  “No,” she said quietly.  She raised one hand and touched her neck; Pauline had seen Roman kiss her there before, and thought she felt her own neck tingle in sympathy.  

“Do you want to?” she whispered.  Hana nodded, half guilty and half yearning.  Pauline wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t felt that way, too, hadn’t wanted Calvin to do more than simply hold her hand, kiss her softly.  He looked at her with a tenderness that would make a weaker woman swoon, but sometimes that didn’t feel like enough; sometimes she was filled with a maddening desire to be close to him, to have his hands linger on her.

“And he wants to.”  As it wasn’t a question, she didn’t even bother to nod.  Pauline looked down at her hands, her voice nearly inaudible to her own ears.  “Are you ever afraid he’ll lose interest if you don’t…compromise?”

“No.”  The answer was confident, albeit a bit shocked.  “No, of course not.  Why are you asking this?”

She squirmed in her seat, shame creeping up her back.  “One of the girls at work said Calvin would lose interest if I didn’t give him a ‘taste of what he’s missing.’”  The words were bitter in her mouth and she grimaced before raising her eyes to meet Hana’s.  “We’ve been seeing each other for months, and we kiss, but…what if he wants more?  What if he leaves because we’re moving too slowly?”

When Hana took her hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if it felt like a cold fish.  “Pauline, you can’t think so.  You know Calvin; he is not like that.  He will not want you to do anything that you do not want to do.  He is a good man, and he cares about you.”  She squeezed her hand, and Pauline returned the clasp, feeling tears pricking at her eyes.

“And I care about him.”  As it turned out, she cared about him very much indeed, and the realization was momentarily terrifying. 

“I know.  And he knows.  You are his Paulie, remember?  He would not do anything to hurt you.  If he did, I would bust his head.”  Hana smiled, and Pauline giggled damply.

* * *

Men had it easy, for what lady didn’t like receiving chocolates or flowers?  The former she supposed would be an appropriate gift for a gentleman as well, but it seemed somewhat inconsequential, and perhaps less thoughtful than she’d like.  The perfect present, she thought, showed that the giver paid attention to the recipient’s tastes and inclinations, though it did not make an ostentatious show of this attention or of the gift’s expense.  For the past few days men had been coming into the shop looking for Valentine’s presents for their sweethearts and wives.  Gloves, bottles of scent, combs, shawls, and dozens of handkerchiefs had been flying out the door; Josephine and Henriette had been stitching their fingers off to add monograms, bouquets, and hearts on anything that could be embroidered.  She herself had advised customers clueless about their ladies’ favorite colors, let alone styles or fashions.  She supposed—certainly she  _hoped_ —that the ladies buying gifts for their menfolk in Calvin’s department were less lost. 

Calvin had already asked her out to dinner that evening, and her parents had been more than happy for her to go.  Her mother had said yes almost before Pauline had, and Calvin had only just held in his laughter.  It was only proper etiquette that he ask her parents if he could escort her places, but he also seemed to  _like_  them.  Rather than the stodgy homebodies she knew them to be, he appeared to consider them interesting and funny; his expression was alert, engaged, and pleasant throughout every conversation he had with them, even when Mother pried and prodded (the efficacy of Calvin’s charm doing little to quell her curiosity).  All the same, Pauline tried not to leave him alone with her parents for very long.

Their dinner planned, and February being an inclement season for al fresco dining, she couldn’t put together a picnic supper for two on the roof.  But Hana’s mention of sweets had given her an idea, so she turned to her mother’s shelf. 

Of course Hana would help if she asked, but that seemed like cheating somehow.  She flipped open the cookbook, paging through it to the desserts; then her perusal slowed and she wound the end of her braid around her finger as she read. 

She’d made him the moon already; a cake would be easy in comparison.

If it were summer she’d bake a shortcake and top it with juicy strawberries and whipped cream.  She thought he’d like that: a simple dessert, unfussy and timeless, and not too sweet.  Mother would share her recipe for  _Kuchen_  if she asked, but Pauline did not want to invite her mother’s opinions on the subjects of baking, valentines, or Calvin.  Besides, even Mother would say that Kuchen was better suited to a midmorning snack or afternoon tea than a special occasion.  

She flipped past the recipes for devil’s and angel’s cakes alike; best to avoid any allusion to either vice or virtue.  Nothing too rustic, nor too complicated.  Something refined, she thought, turning pages.  Something like…almond cream cake.  She scanned the recipe: butter, sugar, eggs whites, flour, baking powder, milk, and almond flavoring.  It sounded perfect.  Pauline found a pencil and began a shopping list.

* * *

As she left for work the morning of the 14th, she discovered an envelope with her name on it slid halfway under the door.  The card inside was homemade, an oval of pink paper atop a white doily.  In the center was written a verse:

_And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_  
_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_  
_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_  
_But tell of days in goodness spent,_  
_A mind at peace with all below,_  
_A heart whose love is innocent!_

That handwriting, elegant but masculine, could only belong to one person.  The poem sounded familiar, though she couldn’t place it just then; she’d look in her old schoolbooks after work, and perhaps it would come to her before then.  After one last perusal, a smile stretched across her face, she tucked the card safely away.

The working day wasn’t much different from any other Tuesday, except for a larger than usual number of harried gentlemen darting in to the shop, at a frequency that increased as the day went on.  She spent her time wrapping last-minute gifts, listening to her coworkers twittering about their plans for the evening or bemoaning their lack thereof, and ignoring Letty’s pointed leers. 

Once home she tied on her apron and got to work.  The cake came together quickly, and as it baked the scent of almonds filled the room.  While the layers, which had come out only a little lopsided, cooled, she cooked the frosting; once she’d assembled it she stood back, casting a critical eye on the swoops of pale beige frosting adorned with slivered almonds.  It looked rather nice, she thought.

When those preparations were complete she dressed.  It was a bit meteorologically optimistic to wear the robin’s egg blue cotton, but it fit her so nicely that she couldn’t resist.  She’d just have to wear a shawl and bundle up warmly for the walk to the restaurant.  She had been tempted to buy a new dress—though that in itself was nothing new, and there had been some lovely designs in recently that had sorely tested her resolve; but in the end she had decided that her money would be better spent on him.

His knock sounded right on time.  Pauline eyed her reflection in the mirror next to the door before opening it.  Calvin’s hand quickly fell from where he was fussing with his hair; when he noticed her he ducked his head with an embarrassed smile, and she bit her lip. 

“Good evening,” she giggled. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”  He presented her a little bouquet of lavender roses that she sniffed and cooed over before darting in to put in water.  Then she put on her coat and they made their way downstairs. 

When they reached the street and Calvin drew her hand through his arm, she felt…calm.  The expected swirl of butterflies in her stomach did not take flight, save for a few fluttering flaps of wings; instead of the exhilaration she’d come to expect accompanying flirtation there was a steadier glow of affection.

They dined at a place with white tablecloths and heavy silverware and a rose in a crystal vase at each table.  She felt a brief pang of guilt, uncertain that she was worth the expense of someplace so nice; but it would be gauche to acknowledge the matter now.  And it was a special occasion, after all.

Once the waiter had taken their order Calvin reached across the table and took her hand.  It was with the greatest reluctance that they let go when their food arrived.  The meal was delicious, but Pauline knew that what she ate wasn’t what she would remember.  As she’d known they would they chatted and laughed together, though they shared silences, too, and meaningful looks. 

“Would you like dessert?” he offered as their plates were cleared away.

“Not here,” she said.  At his intrigued expression she smiled.

The streets were filled with couples.  None of the men were as handsome as Calvin, though, and none of the women were as lucky as her. 

Though she’d wanted her parents to leave entirely, or at least stay in the bedroom with the door shut, she’d also known that was too much to ask; they trusted their daughter’s suitor, but were not so liberal as to leave a courting couple entirely alone of an evening.  Instead their return found her mother dozing and her father working on one of his little carvings.  All things considered, their inattention was the best she could hope for. 

There was a certain corner of the kitchen that was almost hidden from the rest of the apartment, and that was where she had set her table.  She’d dug out her grandmother’s lace tablecloth and their nicest pieces of china and silver; the roses he’d brought fit in nicely with them.  After she pulled a bottle of milk in from the fire escape she removed the upturned bowl shielding the cake.  Then she stood before him and took his hand again.  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Calvin,” she said.

“You made that?  For me?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded.  “I was hoping you’d share,” she teased, turning back, “but it’s all yours, if you want.”

He stared at the little table.  “I can’t remember the last time someone made a cake just for me,” he said, something restrained in his voice.  Her heart sank at that, and she squeezed his hand.  He dragged his attention from the tableau to her, gazing at her with shining eyes.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said lightly, “not before you’ve tasted it.”  With a gentle tug at his hand she pulled him toward the table.

But he didn’t budge.  Instead his grip tightened, and he pulled her back.  “Calvin, what—” she began, regaining her balance with one hand on his chest; he covered her hand with his, and loosed her other hand to brush across her cheek.  She had a moment to wonder at the intensity in his eyes before his hand was on the back of her neck, drawing her nearer, and then his mouth was on hers. 

It was what she’d been wanting, this hunger, this abandon.  The firmness of his kiss had taken her aback at first, but she recovered to respond with a tilt of her head.  His fingers stroking her neck made her shiver from head to toe; and just when it was all about to become too much, when the sensations threatened to overwhelm her, he drew back. 

“Thank you,” he said again, a little breathless.  Dazed, she nodded.  “I couldn’t’ve asked for a better present.”  

She twisted her hand to intertwine their fingers, still feeling his heartbeat under her hand.  “You haven’t even tried it yet!” she laughed giddily.  “It might be awful.”

“It doesn’t matter.  You made it for me—you care enough to do that.”

“Of course I care about you, Calvin.”  His face was so open and hopeful and charmingly freckled that she had to turn away, heart suddenly in her throat at the prospect of what he might say in response.  Whether it be indifferent or enthusiastic, she wasn’t sure she was prepared to hear it. 

She sat and began cutting a slice of the cake.  He remained standing for a beat, his eyes on her; then he sat at the table,  and, scared or not, when his knees briefly brushed hers as he arranged his legs in the cramped space, the butterflies swirled in her stomach.  The cake, she noted, looked decent, and smelled heavenly.

“Paulie,” he said quietly.  Only a few seconds passed before she raised her eyes, meeting his gaze across the table.  As their eyes met she saw that her fear was misplaced, and her anxious heartbeat slowed.  He smiled shyly and said, “Me too.”

It was a challenge to eat her cake with only one hand, but she wasn’t about to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here are different kinds of Kuchen, a German pastry, but they tend to be more like coffee cakes than dessert cakes. Recipes for almond cream cakes appear in the Worcester Family Cookbook (1895) and How We Cook in Los Angeles (1894), both found on a list of late 19th-early 20th century cookbooks at Chowhound. 
> 
> No, none of their apartments are as big as I make them sound. Privacy was hard to come by in tenements.
> 
> Handmade valentines were acceptable for all ages. Some people included original poetry in theirs, but Snoddy has used the final stanza of Lord Byron’s “She Walks in Beauty.”
> 
> JACK: THE BEST VALENTINE’S DAY STORY YOU’LL EVER READ


	84. Hana's Birthday (19 February 1905)

As far as Hana was concerned, the best thing about her birthday this year was that February 19th fell on a Sunday.  That meant that after Mass she and Roman could spend the whole afternoon together, doing whatever they wanted.  Or almost whatever they wanted, since she didn’t think Mama and Tatko would let them curl up on the settee with his arms around her and his fingers running through her hair for hours on end.

But his plan would likely involve more activity than that, though he’d insisted on keeping it a secret until now.  She’d hurried her parents home from church to find Roman waiting outside their door.  When he saw them he straightened from where he’d been slouching against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets.  His face lit up as she neared.  Last night she’d washed her hair and brushed it until it shone; this morning she’d worn her indigo wool dress, whose color made her winter-pale complexion look like fine porcelain.  From his reaction, her vanity had been worth the time and effort.  Her face warmed, her heart hiccuped, and her feet hurried her toward him.  He absently returned her parents’ hellos as they entered their home, then reached for her hands. 

“ _Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám, miláčku_.”

“ _Ďakujem_.”

He bent to pick up a small package at his feet before they entered the apartment.  “Now, ya know I think you’re worth a million bucks, and I’d spend every last cent I had on you,” he said, taking her hand, “but I know me blowin’ my savin’s wouldn’t make ya happy.  An’ since it’s your birthday, the most important thing is that you’re happy, right?”

“Right,” she agreed, nodding solemnly.  His grin widened and he dropped a quick peck on her lips.  When he pulled back she followed, bracing one hand on his chest.  “Do that again and I’ll be very happy.”

“If that’s what it takes…”  This time his lips lingered.  In the back of her mind she wondered where Mama and Tatko were; then all thought fled as he deepened the kiss and she sighed, melting against him.  

“Is this what we are doing today?” she asked, a bit breathless, when they parted.  “If this is your plan, it is a good one.”

For a moment he looked tempted, eyes fixed on her mouth.  “Nah,” he said at last, shaking his head.  “But I promise you’re gonna have a good time.”  

He leaned out the door and let out a sharp whistle.  “Do ya mind openin’ your presents first?  That way we don’t have to carry ’em with us.”  As she shook her head Tumbler, Pauline, and Calvin trooped in, bearing gifts. 

“Happy birthday!” Pauline cried, rushing to embrace her.  Roman barely made it out of her way in time, grumbling good-naturedly at her as he stepped away from Hana’s side.  A cloud of sweet perfume surrounded them as she squeezed Hana tight for a moment, then gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek.  “This will be your best year yet, I just know it,” she said, and her eyes were twinkling. 

Calvin offered his best wishes with a smile, while Tumbler went off to find Mama and any cookies she might be persuaded to part with.

Pauline steered Hana to take a place on the settee; when she was situated Pauline plopped a gift in her lap.  “I thought of you the minute I saw it,” she said as Hana carefully loosened the colored paper.  Wrapped inside it was a beautiful crocheted shawl of a pale mossy green.

“Oh, how lovely!”  She lifted the shawl to feel its feathery softness against her cheek.

“It isn’t much good now, but come spring it’ll be just the thing.  And it brings out the green in your eyes.”

Calvin had brought her a stationery set, writing paper and envelopes in light blue, because he’d heard she wrote to her brother often.  Pauline looked immensely proud of him at the thoughtfulness of the gift.  Tumbler paused in eating a cookie to present her with a dime novel.  “Jack says it’s got a real tough gal in it,” he said, crumbs dotting his lips, “kinda like you.”  That might have been the nicest thing he’d ever said to her—or maybe it was Jack’s estimation that he was relaying.  Either way she beamed and told him that she looked forward to reading it; though he tried not to, he seemed pleased at her reaction.

“Here,” Roman said, offering his present last.  It felt heavier than it looked to be.  As she removed the layers of paper around it she understood why: it was a vase made of thick glass, cut with diamonds and flowers that threw rainbows around the room when they caught the light.  She gasped.  “It is beautiful, Roman.”

“Now when I bring ya flowers they won’t have to go in an old jar.  An’ don’t worry,” he went on, “I got it at a good price.”

She got to her feet carefully, cradling the vase in one hand as she kissed his cheek.  “It is a treasure.  Thank you.”  She set the vase in the middle of the table, where Pauline and Mama and even Calvin admired it.

After a light lunch of cucumber sandwiches (that Pauline had cut the crusts from, claiming it made them fancier; Mama, for whom the very concept of a “light lunch” was an oxymoron, rolled her eyes, though she was smiling as she did) and  _orechovník_  they bundled up again, called goodbyes to the elder Kollárs, and headed out.  “Do I need to close my eyes?” Hana teased as they walked.

“Do you trust Skittery’s steering?” Calvin asked with a grin.  At his side Pauline giggled.  Roman started to make a rude gesture at them, then settled for a glare.

“Yes,” she told them all, with a placating hug to the arm she held.  On her next step she popped up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I would follow you anywhere.”

For a moment his eyes were solemn, far more serious than the day demanded; then the dimple appeared in his cheek.  He ducked under the brim of her hat to drop a kiss at the corner of her mouth.  “Hmm.  I’m gonna remember that,” he vowed.  “But for now we’re not goin’ too far.”

It was little surprise to see the façade of Irving Hall, its lights glimmering faintly in the dim February afternoon.  After a quick whispered consultation and the muffled jingle of coins passing from Pauline’s hand to Calvin’s, he rather firmly nudged Roman out of the way at the box office and asked for five tickets.  A belligerent expression threatened to take over Roman’s face until Pauline smiled winningly at them.  “It’s our treat today,” she announced.

Truly grateful for their generosity, especially the way it eased the burden on Roman’s wallet, Hana thanked her.  It took a moment of pointed patience before Roman none too graciously added, “Yeah, alright.  Thanks, Shiv.”

She screwed up her mouth.  “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Why do you have to be so easy to annoy?” he shot back.  At least he was smirking now, the moment of pique passed.

“Don’t worry, Pauline, ya get used to it after a while,” Tumbler said.  Pauline still looked put out, but her expression turned thoughtful, and her gaze moved from younger brother to older.  Whatever conclusion she reached, she argued no further.

They found seats and enjoyed several acts before the theater’s proprietress, magnificent in a shimmering peacock blue gown, performed a sweet ballad bookended by a pair of more upbeat songs that had the audience swaying.  A few minutes after Medda’s performance Roman stood, catching up Hana’s hand as he rose.  “Watch the kid, will ya?” he said to the others, with a nod at Tumbler, who was engrossed in the show.  “I’m gonna introduce Hana to Medda.”  It may have just been a trick, the flash of the stage lights against sequins, but it looked like Calvin tipped a subtle wink at Roman before they left.

He led her through an unassuming door to one side of the stage, giving a nod to the man on the other side.  Then they snaked through a dim, crowded warren of hallways and rooms that were little more than closets.  The door to one was open; through it she glimpsed a young man adjusting his tie in the mirror, with a ventriloquist’s dummy seated on the counter next to him, staring out at her.  She hurried past.

At a door discernible from the others by the songbird painted on it, golden highlights winking in the light, they paused.  Roman tapped gently at the door, calling just as softly, “Medda, you in there?”

“Who’s that?”  A rustling and the clack of heels preceded the door’s opening.  “Skittery?”

Up close Medda Larkson looked older than she did onstage, especially squinting into the hall as she was.  But she was still beautiful, dressed in a deep periwinkle robe and slippers, her enviable corkscrew curls practically glowing.  She smiled at him as she swung the door open wider.  “It is you.  I almost didn’t recognize you, the way you’re smiling.”  He ducked his head as she chuckled.  “How’ve you been?”

“Real good.  Medda, I wanted you to meet my girl—my sweetheart, Hana Kollár.  Hana, this’s the famous Medda Larkson.”

Medda’s smile was welcoming as she ushered them into her dressing room. The costume she’d just been wearing hung from the front of a painted screen, and a tendril of steam rose from the mug of tea on a small table.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hana,” Medda said.  “Is this your first visit to Irving Hall?”

She shook her head.  “No, we have been a few times before.  I enjoy the shows.”

One coppery eyebrow arched.  “And this is the first time I get to meet her?” she asked Roman.

“Today’s a special occasion,” he said, and Hana felt him squeeze her hand.  “It’s Hana’s birthday.”

Her smile grew brighter.  “Oh, wonderful!  Happy birthday, dear.  I’m honored that you chose to spend your special day with us.”  Hana flushed, murmuring her thanks.

“D’you mind if I show her around back here?”

“Of course not!  Just keep it down, and remember, if you can see the audience, the audience can see you.”  The thought of all those eyes on her made Hana freeze.  They would take great care not to be seen.

“Jack says the costume room is pretty interestin’,” he added casually.  Hana looked askance at him—clothes held little fascination for him, so why would costumes be any different?—and was even more confused to see his cheeks tinted pink.

A throaty chuckle tumbled from Medda’s lips.  “I bet he does.”  She looked at the two of them for a moment, her head tilted to one side; but it seemed to Hana that she was looking past them, through them, at something far gone.  Then her eyes focused again, and her expression softened.  “I miss seeing all you boys.  Don’t be a stranger.”  They nodded and said their goodbyes.

Hand in hand they navigated backstage, picking their way around crates and ropes and bits of scenery.  “Medda an’ Jack’s old man were friends from way back,” he said.  “She’s kinda always looked out for him.  Now that he ain’t around much anymore…”

“She must miss him.”  He nodded.

He poked his head into a door marked COSTUMES before entering.  It was by far the largest room they’d seen, though that wasn’t saying much.  Two walls were lined with hanging clothing; against a third were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with boxes and bins, racks of shoes and stacks of hats.  Large mirrors were hung on part of the last wall, with a sewing machine on a large worktable nearby.  She stepped closer to the hanging costumes.  They were jewel-like, shining and glittering, brightly colored and entirely unsubtle.  Among them she picked out an impractical parody of a shepherdess’ dress, and an emerald gown whose voluminous skirt suggested that a hoop would be worn beneath it, and a trio of black corsets decorated with large paste rhinestones.  The idea of wearing such a thing was foreign and yet somehow, surprisingly, thrilling; the idea of being seen wearing such a thing even more so.

Roman eyed a pair of high brown boots that turned down at the top.  “Blink could play pirates in here easy.”  Then something caught his attention and he pulled a box down from one of the shelves, peering into it.

“Pauline would love this place,” she said, running a finger absently along the length of a feather. 

“Then Snoddy can bring her.  Some other time.”  His exploration seemed to have yielded something, for he stopped rummaging through the box and pulled his hand out partway.  When a glance at her revealed that she was watching him he said, “Close your eyes.”

She cocked an eyebrow but did as he said, listening intently: there was the rustle of cardboard and the thud of the box hitting the ground, then his footsteps approaching.  When they stopped in front of her she expected to feel something, some movement, a touch; she found herself leaning toward the warmth of him and felt his laughter puff across her face.  Then he did touch her, smoothing a wayward hair back, kissing her forehead, and finally, with great care, settling something on her head.  He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her partway around before telling her she could open her eyes.  

In the mirror was a young lady with glowing cheeks, her dark hair topped with a crown.  Its weight was noticeable but not overwhelming; she supposed it was simply gilded cardboard studded with paste jewels.  “Fits you perfectly,” Roman said over her shoulder, “ _moje princezna_.”  

“ _Tvoja kráľovná_ ,” she corrected.  She watched her lips curve up in a smirk, watched his head descend to kiss her neck.  At that her eyes closed and she did not watch anything else but felt it all, turning to face him, winding her arms around his back, kissing him until the rest of the world faded away.  She pressed closer, urging him on with fingers carding through his hair; it was only when she nipped at his lower lip that he grew more passionate.  The pitiful mewl she released when his mouth left hers soon turned into a gasp as his lips returned to her neck, nosing aside her collar to scrape his teeth across her collarbone, soothing the mild sting with a swipe of his tongue.  

She arched into him, begging, “Roman,  _láska, prosím ťa_ ,” unaware of what she was asking for, what she wanted except more.  At the sound of her needy voice he pulled away, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder and panting.

“We gotta stop now,” he mumbled, reluctantly taking his hands from her.  With mechanical movements she did the same; when her arms dangled by her sides he took a deep breath and straightened.  He gave her a weak smile, his eyes still dark and wanting.  Then he caught his reflection in the mirror behind her and grimaced.

“It looked respectable when I left this mornin’,” he complained half-heartedly, attempting to smooth his hair down.  “Now look at it.  You see a comb around here anywhere?”

She busied herself searching for one, and by the time she handed him the comb she had stopped trembling.  “Maybe next time you will think about your hair before you start kissing girls.”

“I’m generally pretty preoccupied right about the time we start kissin’.”  Their eyes met in the mirror, and once again desire flared in her belly.  She turned to another mirror—there were plenty of them around the room, so there was no reason for them share—and studied her reflection.  Her lips were swollen and pink, and her bodice needed straightening, but he hadn’t touched her hair, thank goodness.  For a moment she hardly recognized the self-assured young woman looking back at her.  She adjusted her collar, tugged at her bodice, smoothed out her skirt.  With a little twinge of regret she took off the crown, turning it around in her hands.  

“Where does this go?” she asked, holding it up.

He waved the comb.  “Just leave it somewhere.”

Who did he think she was?  She fixed him with a hard stare, noting with some satisfaction the way he quailed before it.  “Roman.  Where does it belong?”

With a huff he plucked it from her hand, deposited it in its box, and slid the box back onto its shelf.  She smiled, satisfied.  “Happy?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”  She didn’t even say anything when he left the comb sitting on the counter in front of the mirror; to tell the truth, she couldn’t remember where she’d gotten it if she tried.  One last look around the room assured her that no one would be able to tell they were there, though a final glance in the mirror did less to reassure her that no one would be able to tell what they had been doing there.  

At the door she paused, a hand on his arm.  Quietly she said, “You make me very happy, Roman.”  He leaned down for one last kiss, soft and light, before they left. 

Hana had no idea how much time had passed while they were backstage.  It was, she’d found, an all too common problem when kissing her sweetheart.  When they returned to their friends Tumbler’s attention didn’t waver from the juggler performing onstage, but Pauline and Calvin looked up. 

Pauline stood before Hana had the chance to sit.  “Come with me to the powder room?”  Hana nodded and Pauline took her arm, weaving through the crowded theater.

As Pauline examined her reflection she asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine.”  Though at the moment her heart was racing for an entirely different reason than it had just a few minutes ago.  She resisted the urge to fuss with her dress, and hoped her voice stayed steady.  “Why do you ask?”

“You seem…different, somehow.  I don’t know.”  Her blonde tresses gleamed as she shook her head.

Hana laughed.  “I am older now, but I did not think it would be so obvious.”  She patted her cheeks and peered at her friend.  “Do I look like an old lady?”

Pauline too laughed.  “No!  You look young and lovely and happy and…”  Again she shook her head.  “It sounds silly, but you look taller.”

Not so silly, she thought, remembering the crown, and how for a moment she’d been a queen.  They intertwined their arms again as they left.  “Next time you come here, you must ask Calvin to show you the costume room.  You will enjoy it.”  What she wouldn’t give to see his face when Pauline made that request.

The ventriloquist was just finishing his act when they returned.  He was followed by a troupe of dancers, then a trio of young women singing in glorious harmony, then a comic who performed with a little dog.  Soon after that Tumbler’s heels began to drum against his seat.  Roman glanced at his face and his fidgeting, then turned to Hana with one eyebrow arched and inclined his head toward the exit.  She nodded before asking, “Shall we go?” loud enough for Tumbler to hear. 

Outside they bought hot chestnuts from a vendor.  Steam curled up from the little paper bags as they walked, popping chestnuts into their mouths.  Roman tossed a few for Tumbler to catch in his mouth, which he did with remarkable dexterity, dodging lampposts and foot traffic and chomping happily.  He was, however, disappointed when he saw where they were headed.

“Why’re we goin’ back?” he whined.  

“Because it’s too cold to be wanderin’ around all afternoon,” Calvin said reasonably.  And it was chilly; she wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed again soon. 

“Besides, Shiv’s never seen the place.”  Tumbler’s disgruntlement softened as he eyed Pauline, and at last he muttered his acquiescence.

It was a good idea, Hana thought.  The lobby of the lodginghouse was far from private, but there would be no parents watching their every move.  It wouldn’t cost them anything to sit there and talk, no matter how long they stayed.  Pauline was already peppering Calvin and Tumbler with questions about the lodginghouse and hearing about its regular denizens.

When they entered there was no sign of Mr. Kloppman, though she hoped he’d appear; she wanted to know what stories he had about Calvin.  As Pauline undertook the same study of the lobby that Hana had, she settled on the seat by the window, Roman close by her side.  Tumbler darted upstairs, and Calvin pulled a pair of chairs near where they sat.

By the time Pauline finished her examination Tumbler had reappeared, a plate of cookies in hand.  Around the one already in his mouth he explained, “Crutchy’s busy makin’ dinner an’ can’t come down but he says happy birthday, Hana.”  The gingersnaps, crunchy and spicy, certainly appeased his disappointment at returning.

They’d just finished the cookies when the door opened, admitting a cold breeze along with Les, followed by a solidly built and cheerful young man.  “Hey, fellas!” he cried, upon seeing Calvin, Tumbler, and Roman.  Over his shoulder he called, “Dave, look who’s here!”  David stepped inside, loosening his scarf; he smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

“Hey, Mush, c’mere,” Roman said.  The smiling young man obeyed.  “Hana, this is Mush Meyers.  Mush, this is Hana Kollár.”

“Nice to meet you!” he said.  This close it was apparent that Mush was very strong, his coat straining across broad shoulders; but with his chilled-pink cheeks and warm eyes, the impression he gave was cherubic rather than intimidating.

“An’ don’t be fooled by the innocent act over there,” Roman went on, gesturing to Pauline.  “That’s the infamous Shiv Hermann.  She’ll stab ya as soon as look at ya.  Shiv, this’s Mush, the Walkin’ Mouth, and Shadow.”  Hana guessed the latter two were the Jacobs brothers, though she hadn’t heard their nicknames before.

Even after Calvin had repeated the introductions using their real names Pauline was still pouting, arms crossed over her stomach.  “Why doesn’t Hana have a terrible nickname?”  As soon as the words left her mouth her eyes widened and a hand flew to her mouth.  “Not that yours are terrible!  I’m just not too fond of mine.”  She glared at Roman, who snickered.

“You got a terrible name ’cause you’re a terrible person who goes around stabbin’ poor fellas who never did anythin’ wrong.”

While Pauline huffed, the boys laughed outright.  “We still talkin’ about Kid Blink?” Mush said.  “’Cause he’s done plenty o’ things he deserves gettin’ jabbed with a hatpin for.”

“Mush is Blink’s best pal, but don’t let that scare you,” Calvin said.  “He’s a good guy.”  Roman agreed with a nod.

“Aw, thanks, fellas!”  Mush beamed at them. 

“What brings you all to Duane Street?” David asked.  Les had joined Tumbler at the bottom of the staircase, where they sat doing something with a newspaper.

“It’s Hana’s birthday today, an’ we’re celebratin’ newsies-style,” Roman explained, and Mush nodded.

“Tumbler may’ve mentioned that once or twice,” he said with a grin.  “Happy birthday!  Are you havin’ a nice day?”

“Yes, thank you.”  Hana returned his smile.  It was nearly impossible not to.

“Oh!  You should see socks!” he gasped.  With that nonsensical declaration he pounded up the stairs, calling, “Socks!” as he went.  Hana looked at Roman, who shrugged; none of the other boys had any explanation to offer either. 

“I don’t know if I want to see these socks,” she confided, to general amusement.

“I don’t blame you,” David said.  Then he offered, “ _Sto lat._ ”

Only half of that made sense to her.  She cocked her head, frowning slightly.  “A hundred what?”

David laughed.  “Years.  As in, may you live a hundred years.”

“I second that,” Roman said, squeezing her hand, and Pauline added a hearty “Hear, hear!”

The rustling from where the younger boys were working ceased, and Les crossed from the stairs, something made of newspaper in his hands and Tumbler trailing behind.  “Happy birthday, Hana,” he said, holding up what she now saw to be a crown.  Its triangular peaks fashioned from cuts and folds in the paper, it was as far from the shining, bejeweled crown she’d worn earlier as possible; next to her she felt Roman chuckle.  She leaned forward and Les placed the crown carefully atop her head.  This one’s weight was unnoticeable; she raised a hand to make sure it was securely in place. 

“How does it look?”  She posed, chin raised.

 Pauline nodded.  “It suits you,” she said.  “I’m rather envious.”

“Maybe I will let you borrow it sometime.  You can wear it at the shop.”

“Yes!  We’ll start a new trend for spring headwear.”

Mush’s tread was much more sedate as he descended.  The reason why soon became apparent: clinging to his shoulder was a soot-colored kitten.  Both ladies leapt to their feet, cooing at the cat and the sweet sight of the young man cuddling it.  “Girls,” Tumbler scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Boots isn’t here, but he wouldn’t mind ya meetin’ Socks.”  Raising the small face to eye-level Mush admonished, “Be nice to the ladies.”  The kitten made no protest as Hana lifted her from Mush’s arms.  She looked up with wide eyes, then bared her teeth with a tiny meow.  Hana and Pauline let out twin exclamations of delight. 

Socks stretched in Hana’s arms, revealing the pink pads on her white-furred feet.  “Oh, you’ll get cat hair all over your dress,” Pauline warned, with little fervor.  As she ran a finger down Socks’ back her reservations further crumbled.  “We’ll just brush it off later,” she murmured. 

Hana returned to sit, cradling Socks.  When she tried to take up her previous spot next to Roman, though, he grabbed her waist and maneuvered her to sit on his knee.  Her head jerked toward him.  “Now Dave can sit where you were,” he said, the satisfied grin he wore not at all altruistic.

“How kind of you,” she said dryly.  Though she wriggled a little in embarrassment, a quick glance around the room revealed that no one seemed scandalized by her seat.  And if Pauline disapproved she didn’t say anything; in fact, she was beaming, though that might have been the lingering effects of the kitten, or her proximity to Calvin.  If it were truly inappropriate, she trusted that Pauline would give her some sign.  Until that happened Hana relaxed, and Roman secured his arm around her waist.  For a moment she could feel nothing but his warm hand curled around her stomach; then Calvin asked David about how his work at the newspaper was going, and the resulting conversation and Socks purring in her arms were interesting enough to keep her attention from dwelling on all of the places Roman’s body was touching hers.

David politely asked Pauline what she did, and he and Mush recognized the name of the shop right away.  “They got real nice stuff there,” Mush said.  “Daisy likes lookin’ in the windows.  That’s my girl,” he added, all starry-eyed.  A glance at Pauline told Hana that some of last season’s accessories were likely to end up here soon, wrapped up in a box emblazoned with “C.M. James & Co.” across the top.  Calvin’s face showed that he’d reached the same conclusion, and Hana saw him squeeze Pauline’s hand, looking rather besotted.

“Do you have a sweetheart, David?” Hana asked.  Seeming more amused than rueful he shook his head.  She couldn’t understand why not; he was clever and kind, and nice-looking, though not, of course, as handsome as Roman. 

“We could help ya out if ya wanted,” Roman offered magnanimously.  He waved a hand at the other couple.  “Me an’ Hana set up Shiv an’ Snoddy, an’ look how good that worked out.”

“That was a fortunate coincidence,” Pauline sniffed.

“Very fortunate, I’d say.”  Calvin turned a warm smile to her and lifted her hand to his lips.  Her annoyance disappeared, replaced by pleasure.  She leaned close to whisper something in his ear, something that made him smirk.  It did Hana’s heart good to see her friends so happy, and she leaned into Roman’s embrace. 

Feeling no such goodwill, he rolled his eyes and scoffed, as if he weren’t currently cuddling his own sweetheart.  “See what I mean?” he asked David.  “Say the word an’ we’ll find ya somebody.”

“Thanks, but I’m all set with matchmaking.  I think my mother already knows every unmarried Jewish girl between 18 and 35 in the city.”

“Thirty-five?”

“I’m mature for my age,” he answered, deadpan.  Roman snorted.  “Mama loves Jack, but ever since he an’ Sarah got married, she’s pretty set on having a Jewish daughter-in-law.”

From the corner of her eye Hana saw Roman look at her, his expression inquisitive.  She didn’t have more than a second to ponder it, though, because Les hollered across the room, “Gussie’ll convert for ya!”  Hana slumped against Roman, giggling until tears filled her eyes and Socks leapt from her arms. 

Not long after that they said their goodbyes and hurried home in the late-winter twilight.  Pauline gave her another hug at the door before she and Calvin moved down the hallway.

After a delicious dinner of  _hubový paprikáš_  and  _halušky_ , Tatko made his way down the hall to talk to a neighbor, and Mama upstairs to retrieve the iron she’d lent out last week.  They would not be long, Hana knew, and from the way Roman stood and walked toward her, she could tell he intended to make use of that time.

“So?  Did ya have a good time today?”

Her dress was littered with black cat hair and the crown was on the table, ringing the vase he’d given her.  She could not remember a time she’d felt happier or more cherished, and those feelings would warm her for days to come.  She smiled up at him.  “It was almost perfect.”

His eyebrows rose.  “Almost?”  She inhaled sharply as his hands settled at her waist and pulled her closer. 

“It would be perfect if you did not have to leave.”  The pleading that she kept from her tone was still there in her eyes, she knew, and knew from the way his grip tightened that he saw it too.  It had been such a good day, she wasn’t sure how she could want anything more; but she did, and for once she didn’t feel selfish for it.

“Think your folks’d let me stay?” he tried to joke.  At her wan smile his face turned serious.  “Hana.  I…”  His fingers clutched at her, and he gave his head a little shake.  When he spoke his voice was barely audible, though she knew it was not from shame or embarrassment.  

“ _Víš, že chci tě_.”  She did know, and wanted him just as much; but hearing him say it sent a thrill through her, molten heat spreading from the pit of her stomach though her limbs.  His hands slid an inch or two down from her waist, tracing a burning trail she could feel through every layer she wore; she moved closer still, though it meant having to tip her head back to see his face.  “ _Určitě tě potřebuji.  A zbožňuji tě.  Rozumíš?  Chci ti dát vše, co potřebuješ, a udělám to.  Prozatím máš mé srdce.  Hanka, jsi_ …”  

For a moment his eyes and hers were locked, his expression echoing the words he’d just said and foreshadowing ones he hadn’t said yet.  Then he glanced over her shoulder, and what he saw there made his expression light up.  He turned her around to face the framed map hung on the wall, the photograph of him and Tumbler pinned next to it.  Roman wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her hair.  Almost the moment he spoke she knew what he was going to say; but that didn’t quell the feeling of contentment and belonging that came from being in his arms, from hearing him say in her ear, “ _Jsi můj svět_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám, miláčku = Happy birthday, sweetheart 
> 
> Ďakujem = Thank you
> 
> orechovník = walnut roll 
> 
> moje princezna = my princess (though I have faith that you all figured this one out)
> 
> Tvoja kráľovná = your queen 
> 
> láska, prosím ťa = love, please
> 
> Sto lat = one hundred years; a common birthday greeting in Polish
> 
> hubový paprikáš and halušky = mushroom paprikash (a stew often made in the US with chicken, and with sour cream and paprika in the sauce) and potato dumplings, kind of like gnocchi
> 
> Víš, že chci tě = You know that I want you
> 
> Určitě tě potřebuji. A zbožňuji tě. Rozumíš? Chci ti dát vše, co potřebuješ, a udělám to. Prozatím máš mé srdce. Hanka, jsi… = I certainly need you. And I adore you. You understand? I want to give you everything that you need, and I will do it. For now you have my heart. Hanka, you’re…
> 
> Jsi můj svět = You are my world
> 
> JACK: READ THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> IT’S EVEN GOT A LOVENEST AT IRVING HALL!


	85. Roman (23 February 1905)

Hands braced on his arms, Hana kissed Roman’s cheeks.  “ _Všetko najlepšie k meninám_.”

He laced his fingers together at the small of her back and hummed contentedly in response, his eyes half-closed.  For a moment, at least; then his face scrunched up.  “Huh,” he said, frowning over her head.

“What?”

“Ya didn’t kiss me last year.”  There was only a hint of mild reproach in his voice; for the most part it was amazed, as if such a thing as her not kissing him was hard to imagine.

Now it was her turn to frown, trying to remember a year ago.  She vaguely remembered that she had only just learned his name in time to wish him a happy name day.  “Huh,” she repeated.  Had that only been a year ago?  It seemed like he’d always been part of her life, always been in her heart.  But just one name day ago they’d been little more than strangers.

He seemed to have realized the same thing.  “It’s been a year,” he said.  His thumbs swept in slow arcs against her back and she marveled at his touch, a thing she would not have believed possible then and could not now live without.  Roman’s eyes were soft and deep; in them she saw the home she’d left, the home she had now, the home she would yet make.  “A really good year.”

There was no denying that, and she prayed that it would be the first of many good years for them.  Hana nodded, her heart light despite its fullness.  “ _Tak, na tento rok prajem ti zdravie_ ,” she murmured, with a kiss to one cheek; “ _a šťastie_ ,” and she kissed the dimple in the other.  “ _A pohodu_ ” preceded a kiss to his forehead, and “ _a lásku_ ” his mouth.  He captured her lips then, and though the kiss was relatively chaste, it still seemed full of promise.

The wishes she’d made for him—for health and happiness, tranquility and love—were already come true for her, and all because he was there.  She raised her hands to cup his jaw, feeling full of wonder and hope and adoration.  “ _Prajem ti_   _všetko najlepšie, ale si pre mňa všetko najlepšie_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Všetko najlepšie k meninám = All the best on your name day 
> 
> Tak, na tento rok prajem ti zdravie…a šťastie…a pohodu…a lásku = So (in/for) this year I wish you health, and happiness, and peace/contentment, and and love. (It’s extremely common to hear/see Slovaks wishing each other health, happiness, and love at name days, birthdays, and holidays. Peace is less common, but Skittery needs it.) 
> 
> Prajem ti všetko najlepšie, ale si pre mňa všetko najlepšie = I wish you all the best, but you are all the best for me.


	86. Thanks (3 March 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Dear Jack, Roman has told me that you found his brothers and sister.  I must thank you for doing this.  It is such good news for Roman; he feels much more peaceful to know that they are all well and not so far from each other.  I hope, that it will not be long before they write to him, and I am forever grateful to you for your help.  Please tell Sarah and Danny I say hello.  Yours truly, Hana Kollár**

 

A.

Dear Hana,

You’re welcome, but you don’t gotta thank me.  You’ve done more for Skitts (I mean, ROMAN) than anyone else has.  And maybe it’s dumb ‘cause he’s older than I am and claims he don’t need anyone messing around in his business, but I used to be kind of afraid of what might happen to him someday, you know?  I think we all were.  But I ain’t anymore, and it’s ‘cause of you.  So, it’s us that aught to be thanking you.

(Just, do me a favor and don’t tell him I said any of that, all right?  You know how he gets when folks talk about him.)

Anyway, I hope he hears from his folks, and I hope you’re doing good too.  Les says you went over to [Duane Street](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/171074305340/as-far-as-hana-was-concerned-the-best-thing-about) the other day–he said the fellas did their best entertaining, but if they didn’t, you and Pauline are welcome to come up here for a change.  Danny might not be as cute as Socks, but then again, he might be cuter.  You’ll just have to judge for yourself.  (I’ve seen lots of cats, but he’s the first baby I’ve been around, so I don’t have anything else to compare him to.  Sarah says he’s pretty cute, but she’s partial too.)  Either way, he’s cuter than the fellas.

Sarah also says hello, and to tell you happy balated birthday.  Danny says “UH?!,” but I’m sure that means hello too, probably.  He ain’t quite mastered talkin’ just yet.

Thanks again, and if you need anything else, give a holler.  (Or if you know anyone else who needs some detective work done.  I think JACK KELLY, PRIVATE EYE has a good ring to it, and they say it’s always good to set up a family business for your kid to inherit.  –I mean, once he’s old enough to talk.)

All the best,

JACK.


	87. Baby (9 March 1905)

I have this idea that one day the boys go over for a visit to find that Hana’s not feeling well.  Skittery is worried until her hand pressed low on her abdomen clues him in that she’s suffering from female trouble; that’s awkward, but not fatal or contagious, so he kisses her forehead and leaves her to rest on her bed.  He tells Tumbler that they’re not staying since Hana’s stomach is bothering her, though she’ll be alright soon.  Tumbler, who remembers Les saying that he heard his ma telling a neighbor about how Sarah’s stomach hurt in the months before Danny came, loudly suggests, “Maybe she’s gonna have a baby!”

Roman Kučera’s entire life flashes before his eyes as his girl’s parents stare at him.  “She’s not gonna have a baby,” he tells Tumbler and the Kollárs, sounding more defensive than he’d like.  Maybe he should have explained things better to Tumbs, to avoid this kind of situation.  But there is no way that Hana is pregnant—not now, and not by him (no matter how much he’s thought about what would lead up to her getting in the family way).  She couldn’t be unless something unthinkable has happened, and he’d know if it had; he knows her well enough that he’d notice if she’d been hurt like that.  But he’s sure she hasn’t, just as he’s sure she wouldn’t ever step out on him, so he’s confident in saying, “There’s no way she’s gonna have a baby anytime soon.”

“Why not?” Tumbler wants to know.  “Wells Fargo could find this place easy.”

Hana’s ma and pop look puzzled now, which is far safer than the hard, cold stares he’d received a moment ago.  “Sure,” he allows, “but they ain’t gonna bring Hana a baby.  Not ’til after we’re married.”

It takes Mrs. Kollár’s expression shifting again for him to realize what he’s said.  “After  _she’s_  married” is what they were supposed to hear.  But he won’t deny that he meant what he said, even if his cheeks are scarlet (and Tumbler is sighing longsufferingly).

He does his best to ignore everyone else as he gives her a kiss goodbye and tells her that he loves her and hopes she feels better soon.  Then Mr. Kollár walks them downstairs, and when they reach the bottom he stops Skitts with a hand on his shoulder.  Skitts is waiting for a threat, or a reminder that he’s not good enough for Hana, or a warning not to come around anymore; the waiting is almost worse than being yelled at, especially when Mr. Kollár looks so grave.  The pressure on his shoulder is just short of painful, though, and he understands that, embraces it.  “We will talk later,” Mr. Kollár eventually says, and lets go as Skittery nods.  He watches Mr. Kollár’s heavy tread as he climbs back up the stairs, and an unexpected guilt now flashes through his stomach.

“Thought you said you [didn’t want to have kids](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/142919739517/skittery-and-kids-for-the-prompt-thing),” Tumbler says as they walk homeward.

He’s surprised he remembers.  “That was a while ago.  Before I met Hana.”  Before he believed someone would put up with him long enough that having kids together would be possible, let alone desirable; before she made him start to think he wouldn’t ruin a kid’s life just by being its old man.

“Everythin’s different since Hana showed up.”  It’s not quite a complaint; there’s a thoughtful note in Tumbler’s remark, just enough to make it seem like maybe he doesn’t think the changes are all bad.

“Not everything,” Skitts says.  “I’m still taller than you.”

Tumbler snorts.  “Not for long.”  It’s wishful thinking on his part.

“And I’m still smarter than you.”

“Big deal.”

“And I’m still faster than you!”  At that he takes off running down the street, Tumbler shouting behind him about what a dirty cheat he is and racing to catch up.

A block later Tumbler is on his heels and Skittery slows to a jog, accepting with a laugh the punch Tumbler jabs at his ribs.  He throws his arm around Tumbler’s shoulders, pulling him close.  “And I’m still your brother,” he says quietly.  “Nothin’s gonna change that, not ever.”

In response Tumbler slugs him again, then slings his own arm up around Skittery’s shoulders.  And they go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: Ya know, maybe it’s time someone talked to Tumbs about Wells-Fargo…but I sure as heck ain’t volunteerin’.


	88. Farm (20 March 1905)

Remember how Jack [invited Hana and Pauline to the farm](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/171502730302/dear-jack-roman-has-told-me-that-you-found-his)?  In the spring of 1905, they take him up on the offer and spend a weekend there.

  * (The Hermanns think that if Hana is there, Pauline will be dandy.  The Kollárs do not have the opposite reassurance.  But Hanka made it all the way to Pittsburgh and back on her own, so Valhalla, just over an hour away, should be no problem.)
  * (It took a while for Snoddy to get past  _My girl_  wants to  _take a trip_  to meet  _Cowboy_.  He’s not jealous, and he knows that Jack has no evil intentions toward Pauline; he’s just never bought into the Legend of Jack Kelly and doesn’t understand the appeal.  Pauline explains a few times that Hana is so looking forward to it that she’d be a terrible friend not to accompany her, and that she too wants a little adventure, and that if he doesn’t want her traveling without him then he has the power to do something about that, doesn’t he, Mr. Angier?  
Snoddy shuts up about it after that.)
  * (Skittery gets it right away.  He knows that Hana looks up to Sarah and loves babies and misses seeing trees, so he just kisses her and says he can’t wait to hear about it when she gets back.)
  * When the almanac predicts warmer temperatures and sunny skies, they send a note to the Kellys; Jack writes back that the conditions there look promising, so they make their arrangements.
  * Hana has to check City Mouse’s bag before they leave to make sure she’s taking practical enough shoes.
  * Pauline, born and raised in New York City, is a tiny bit intimidated by the idea of so far from civilization.  “It is a farm, not the forest,” Hana laughed before they left.
    * “Sarah thinks there’s bears there,” Skitts put in cheerfully.  That Hana immediately disagreed and they began bickering meant that he shouldn’t be believed, but…bears?
  * They both get excited on the train ride as they watch the space between buildings stretch wider and the view get greener.  Hana looks forward to spending time with the Kellys, and meeting Danny, and seeing a new part of America, and being in the country again.  Pauline wonders if she’ll be asked to milk a cow (something heroines in stories often do).
  * And she’s going to meet Jack Kelly!  She’s unsure what to expect, because:
    * Calvin says he’s loudmouthed and cocky, but begrudgingly admits that he does seem to have matured  _somewhat_  since marrying Sarah (he rubs his nose when he says this) and having a kid, but
    * Andy says he’s probably the greatest hero New York’s ever seen.
    * Hana says he’s nice, though, and Sarah is wonderful, so Pauline decides not to worry.
  * Sarah and Danny and one of the kids meet them at the station.  Sarah hugs them and Danny waves his fists and the kid, who’s there because Sarah’s teaching him how to drive, mutely blushes at the pretty blonde lady.
  * The wagon hasn’t even stopped at the farm when there’s a whoop and a voice hollering “Is that SHIV HERMANN?!”
    * Sarah laughs at her sigh.  “You’re lucky,” she tells a disbelieving Pauline.  “I was always just Dave and Les’ sister, or Jack’s girl.  This means you’re somebody all on your own.”  That changes Pauline’s perspective on the situation considerably.
    * (No matter how he addresses her, he makes sure the kids call them Miss Hana and Miss Pauline.)
  * In proper dime novel fashion Jack leaps off his saddle-less horse (it’s not very far to jump down, and she immediately starts eating) and runs up to greet them, whipping off his hat and pushing his hair back.  He smiles and says hey to Hana before introducing himself to Pauline.  “It’s great to finally meet ya,” he says, grinning.   
“And you. I’m glad to put a face to all of Andy’s stories.”
  * Then they’re introduced to Nell.  “I’ve always wished I could ride,” Pauline remarks, patting Nell’s nose, and Jack can hardly contain himself.  It’s only the unsuitability of Pauline’s skirt that keeps him from hoisting her onto Nell’s bare back that very minute.  Once she’s in one of Sarah’s split skirts, he promises, he’ll teach her.
    * (He just assumes Sarah’s clothes will fit Pauline.  Why wouldn’t they?  They’re both shaped about the same.)
  * Seeing the mare reminds Hana of the picture of Nell and Silver, and Jack is happy to hear about her job with Mrs. Hayes.  He’s got nothing but good to say about Miss Grace.
  * This leads into general inquiries after the boys as they walk to the house.  Along the way they meet several of the students, who are curious about the young ladies and who seem to be named much the same way the newsies are.
  * Danny is in fact much cuter than Socks, they tell his parents, who beam with pride.  Seeing Jack tenderly cradle his child makes each young lady present feel something deep inside.
  * Then they pull out the gifts they carried from the city: long letters from Sarah’s family and notes from the boys (who had been more willing to scrawl a line or two when they knew they wouldn’t have to pay for postage); new dime novels; issues of the  _Sun_  that David’s articles have been in; a jar of pickles that makes Sarah laugh; a tiny suit of clothes for Danny that the girls pitched in for, complete with (“Spot-sized,” Jack chortles) suspenders; a box of pastries from Mrs. Procházka’s.
  * They have a snack and then the visitors refresh themselves before the grand tour with Jack.  He tells them what all of the buildings are, what’s for supper, what they’ve planted in the fields, about his feud with a chicken, and the name of every last horse on the property.
  * Hana wants to take her shoes off and feel the dirt and grass under her soles like she did as a child, but refrains.  The growing things, the open sky and the trees feel like home, though it’s still so different.
  * Pauline has no such desire to remove her shoes, especially not after she steps in manure.
  * Unsurprisingly, their tour ends at the barn.  Since she’s wearing the split skirt now, and Jack looks so eager, Pauline agrees to a lesson.  Hana watches as he helps her up on a very tall horse called Allen, then leads both Allen and Nell out to a paddock.  Pauline is concerned at first, especially when Jack lets go of the lead and hops onto Nell’s back, but Allen just stands there.  At Jack’s prompting she picks up the reins and gingerly kicks her heels against Allen’s side; he follows Nell around the paddock placidly.  After a few circuits they stop and he gives her some pointers, telling her to sit up straight and loosen her grip on the reins, but says she’s doing well.  Pauline looks proud and nods when he asks if she wants to ride some more.  “Ya wanna come?” Jack calls to Hana, but she lets the heroes amble off together. 
  * As the horses walk, he asks to hear about her adventures.  “There isn’t much adventure in selling dresses and accessories,” she protests.  
“There’s gotta be!  They don’t call ya Shiv for nothin’.”  
“That man will rue the day he named me Shiv Hermann,” she says darkly.  After what Sarah said, the tone is more for dramatic effect than out of any real malice.   
“Attagirl!” Jack crows, punching the air with one fist and adding a whoop for good measure. Nell snorts, shaking her head, and he pats her neck.  He turns to Pauline with mischief in his eyes.  “Ready to run?” he asks, and, caught up in the excitement and his approbation, she nods agreement.
  * Back at the Kellys’ apartment Hana helps Sarah with the cleaning, shaking out the rugs and sweeping the floors.  “You don’t have to do this–you’re supposed to be on vacation!” Sarah laughs.  Hana just shrugs; she doesn’t mind helping, not if she gets to talk with Sarah and pause every so often to coo at Danny.
  * When Pauline and Jack return she looks a little worse for wear, twigs and hay clinging to her clothes, a flower missing from her hat, her walk stiff.  “She only fell twice,” Jack announces, not without pride.   
“Into a bush and then some hay, luckily.  In case you hadn’t noticed, Allen is  _tall_.”  The second fall was off of Nell, who, while shorter, moves quite a bit more quickly than Allen.  She’ll be sore tomorrow, from the falls and the riding alike, but it was worth it to hear some of Jack’s stories.  The second time she fell because she’d been laughing at the idea of Roman in pink longjohns and Nell had taken advantage of her distraction.  She can’t mention the longjohns to Hana–it would be inappropriate to encourage any kind of scandalous thoughts in her dear friend–but she’s already planning ways to torture Roman with her new information.   
Jack also taught her a cowboy song that will now pop into her head at the most inopportune moments.
  * The night that descends is the darkest Pauline’s ever seen.  Lantern in hand, Sarah leads them away from the buildings; Jack spreads out blankets and they sit looking at the stars.  When Pauline lies back and sees the whole sky above her, not pure black but sparkling with gold and white stars in a long, milk chocolate-colored band, it’s awe-inspiring and a little overwhelming, and she digs her fingers into the grass and dirt at her side for an anchor.  “It’s so much bigger than back home,” she whispers, though she hadn’t meant to say anything, and Jack and Sarah chuckle quietly.   
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s the same sky,” Sarah agrees before they all fall silent again, thinking about absent friends under stars hidden from them.
  * The next morning Hana is awake early enough to go out and help Jack with his chores.  He isn’t much of a morning person, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he goes; for the first few minutes she isn’t sure he even realizes she’s there.  They work together quietly, Jack only giving her directions when she doesn’t know where something is.  She doesn’t mind the quiet, relishes seeing the sun rise over the horizon, the threads of fog dissipating over the fields.
  * But apparently he’s paying more attention than he appears to be, because as she gathers eggs he asks (keeping a wary eye on one chicken in particular), “He know how lucky he is?”  
“Yes.  He tells me this.”  She stoops to pick up another egg and says, “And I am lucky too.  He loves me more than I thought anyone ever would.”   
“He’s a smart man,” Jack says approvingly.  “You should bring him up here, let him see what he’s missin’.”  He casts a contented eye over the farm and she thinks he means the fresh air, the animals, the freedom; but Roman would also see hard work and happiness, an affectionate, adoring marriage, and doting parents.   
“As soon as I can,” she promises.
  * Meanwhile Pauline is helping Sarah get breakfast ready, though her helping is more keeping Danny busy than anything else.  Sarah is easy to talk to, she finds, and Pauline takes the opportunity to draw on the older woman’s wisdom and experience.  None of her friends back home are married, so watching Sarah and Jack together–how comfortable they are with each other, how well they know each other–is illuminating, and even inspiring.
  * In the afternoon they join the kids in a game of baseball.  At first they stand aside with Becky and Sarah, watching the teams form and play an inning; once they’ve got the gist of it Hana and Sarah join Red’s team, and Pauline and Becky join Jack’s. 
    * Pauline, having played stickball in the street as a girl, is better at batting than Hana is.  Pauline is very carefully tagged out between first and second by a boy a little younger than Tumbler, whose expression wavers between revulsion and fascination.
    * When it’s Sarah’s turn at bat Jack heckles her, but it doesn’t bother her; she adjusts her grip on the bat and watches the ball with narrowed eyes.  She gets a solid line drive to left field and makes it safe to first.  Jack is playing in the outfield, but when the next batter pops up a fly ball he catches it and races Sarah to second base.  He tries to tag her out on the run but gets in her way instead; she knocks him over and is declared safe at second.  Hana and Pauline holler like they’re at a real ballpark. 
  * All of the Kellys escort them back to the station that evening.  It’s a little sad leaving; more than two days seems to have passed in the blink of an eye.  “If ya ever want to go ridin’, go to Murray in Central Park an’ tell him Jack Kelly sent ya.”  
“And if he doesn’t remember who that is, tell him it’s Nell’s boy,” Sarah adds.  
He sticks his tongue out at her before turning back to Pauline.  “Better yet, go see Grace an’ get her to take ya.  And you can tell her Jack Kelly sent ya, too.”  
  * After that it’s hugs with Sarah, handshakes with Jack, and kisses for Danny.  “You’re welcome back whenever you like,” Sarah says.  
“Bring some o’ the fellas next time!” Jack hollers.  
“BuheeAGH!” Danny calls from Jack’s arms, pumping his arms frantically.  
  * They lean out the window and wave, calling their thanks and goodbyes, until the train picks up speed, then sit back and grin at each other.  They agree that they both had a great time; Pauline tells Hana that she was right about Sarah and Jack. 
  * Hana will tell everyone back home that a place like the farm is a little too isolated for her to live at happily, which is true, but for the weekend it’s close to heaven.
  * Pauline will see everything differently when she gets back.  Yes, the city will smell stale and old, but she’ll notice the little adventures of working in a shop.  Most of all, she’ll pay more attention to the boys, try to be a little kinder and more patient.  
But she’ll needle Roman mercilessly about the color pink.
  * (The boys are waiting at the station when their train gets in.
    * Snoddy takes Pauline’s hand to help her from the carriage and keeps hold of it all the way back.  Outside her apartment he stands staring at her, wearing a silly smile, until she asks, “What?”  
“I didn’t know you had freckles,” he says.   
“Oh, no!”  She throws her hands over her face.  “How unladylike.”  
“They’re cute,” he assures her, gently pulling her hands away, “and you can hardly see ’em.”  Since she doesn’t look convinced he holds her hands and kisses every freckle he can find, across her nose and onto her cheeks.  She sighs, eyes closed, and when he’s kissed them all she raises her chin and kisses his lips.  “I missed you,” she murmurs, and his mouth is open to say something when the door behind her opens and her mother is hugging her.
    * Hana all but throws herself into Skittery’s arms and kisses him quickly before starting to chatter in Slovak about how wonderful it was and how glad she is to see him.  She smells like sunshine and sweet grass and when they get back to the building he pulls her into the alcove under the stairs just to hold her, to tell her how beautiful she is, all happy and glowing like that, and how much he loves her, and to bury his face in her hair and think about the day when they’ll visit the farm together.)



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> CAN YOU FELLAS BELIEVE THAT MY THREE FAVORITE DIME-NOVEL GIRLS (Sarah, Nell, and SHIV HERMANN) FINALLY MET IN ONE PLACE?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
> 
> (Hana’s great too, but she’s never stabbed anyone with a hatpin. …YET.)


	89. Grace Shirley (23 March 1905)

Once he’d finished reading “[An Interrupted Wedding; or, Marion Marlowe as Maid of Honor](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fdimenovels.lib.niu.edu%2Fislandora%2Fobject%2Fdimenovels%253A95998%23page%2F1%2Fmode%2F1up&t=ZjUyNjk4M2FlNjM2ZDYxYWMwM2NkYjE1NGU2MGY4MTVlZWM1N2Q5MixEeTdEVEhSOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172188255980%2Fonce-hed-finished-reading-an-interrupted&m=1)” (during which it had been hard to convince him not to use silly, high voices whenever anyone spoke, including the men), Roman flipped to the end of the book.  “Huh,” he said.    
  
“Yes?”  
  
“These letters.”  He moved the book into her line of sight and pointed at the top of the page, where a woman, presumably the story’s author, sat as if writing.  “Askin’ the author for advice on stuff.  Our ones—dime novels for fellas, I mean—don’t have those.”  
  
“Because clever young men don’t need advice from strangers?” she suggested, her tone saccharinely innocent.  She leaned into him as much as she could without jabbing his ribs with her elbow every time she knit a stitch.  
  
“Because we’re too dumb to know when we should be askin’ for help.”  His eyes scanned the questions and responses, darting over the print; on the last page he slowed.  “Listen to [this one](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fdimenovels.lib.niu.edu%2Fislandora%2Fobject%2Fdimenovels%253A96010&t=NGI5ZjEyNmYxODcxMjVkMTUyYTg3MjQyNGQ0NmYxYjAzZTE0ODhjOCxEeTdEVEhSOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172188255980%2Fonce-hed-finished-reading-an-interrupted&m=1): ‘Is there anything wrong in kissing a young man before you are engaged to him?’”

“I hope not,” she murmured.  
  
“You an’ me both.  But ol’ Grace Shirley here says, ‘We do not believe in young women being careless with their caresses.’”  He continued reading the reply in a snooty falsetto that reminded her of one of Mrs. Roth’s friends; when she giggled he looked down his nose at her until she quit.  “‘An occasional friendly kiss is not especially objectionable, but it should be understood to be a favor that may be withdrawn at any time, and which is bestowed as a token of friendship.  Young women, as a rule, should keep their caresses for their husbands or fiances and never bestow them where they are not appreciated.’”  
  
Hana lowered her knitting to her lap and stole a look at Roman.  The mirth was gone; now he frowned at the page, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought.  After half a moment she moved her knitting to the empty space next to her.  “I think she is not wrong,” she said, turning to him.  
  
His eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back; the dime novel’s pages crunched quietly in his grip.  “Hana, ya know if ya ever want me to stop anythin’—”  
  
She shook her head.  “I also think young women should not be—”  To get the words right she glanced down at the volume now splayed in his lap.  “—careless with their caresses.”  Deliberately she raised her hand to cup the back of his neck, sliding her fingers through his hair as she did.  The anxiety drained from his eyes, and his lips curled up.  Her free hand covered his heart, pressing firmly enough on his chest that she could feel his heart bumping against her palm. 

Likewise she felt his voice rumbling under her hand as he said, “I see what ya mean.”  She wondered if he could feel the faint fluttery trembling of her fingers; he didn’t move, kept his warm, expectant gaze trained on her face.  How could anyone advise her to deny affection to such a face? such a heart? 

It was with some difficulty that Hana remembered what else she meant to say.  Her fingers flexed against his shirt, and her eyes traveled from his eyes to his dimpling cheek to his mouth; she swallowed.  “And Miss Shirley says not to give kisses—” 

“ _Caresses_ ,” he corrected, voice rich with amusement.

“—where they are not appreciated.”  She raised an eyebrow, though she did not remove her hands.  

“No problem there.  See, the only thing I appreciate more than your caresses—an’ I do appreciate those, very much,” he added, and the way his voice dropped flooded her face with heat.  He’d still made no move, waiting patiently for her. “The only thing better than how it feels when ya touch me is knowin’ how much ya love me.  I appreciate that, an’ you, more than I can say.”

Doubtless Marion Marlowe was virtuous enough to deny such a declaration its due, and possibly Grace Shirley was, too; but Hana Kollár, when faced with such sincerity and devotion, was all but powerless to resist. So though he was neither her husband nor her fiancé, she kissed him all the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: The way I see it, if ya read dime novels about cowboys an’ pirates an’ stuff instead o’ the ones about marriage, you’ll learn not to go smoochin’ people who don’t appreciate it and not hafta ask the author for help.
> 
> –I mean, all ya gotta do is read The Adventures of Shiv Hermann, Vol. 1 to know that unwanted smooches are liable to get ya stabbed with a hatpin.


	90. Judith (2 April 1905)

_The woman who makes photography profitable must have, as to personal qualities, good common sense, unlimited patience to carry her through endless failures, equally unlimited tact, good taste, a quick eye, a talent for detail, and a genius for hard work._  
from “[What a Woman Can Do with a Camera](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.cliohistory.org%2Fexhibits%2Fjohnston%2Fwhatawomancando%2F&t=ODkyMmM1N2FmMmIwNzU2NjM3ZWQwZWY0ZDFjZjg0ZDc3YTBjMTc2OSxNRW1yZDhhRA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172537697130%2Fthe-woman-who-makes-photography-profitable-must&m=1)” by Frances Benjamin Johnston in  _Ladies’ Home Journal_ , 1897

 

“Someone’s asking for you.”  Her mother was waiting as she exited the darkroom.

“Me?”  She frowned, drying her hands on a rag; they were clean, but nothing could be done about the whiff of chemicals that always hung about after she’d been developing pictures.

“You are Miss Cook, are you not?”

“So it would seem.”  She followed her mother up the stairs from the basement into the reception area, which also served as a gallery.  Mother carried on up to the studio; she paused to take in the visitor—a client, one hoped; one dared not even dream the word “patron.”

The head full of curls lent him a youthful aura, though he was kept from looking too babyish by the defined jaw.  And his eyes—again she itched to be able to shoot in color, because not even the best hand-tinting would do this blue justice.  He didn’t appear dressed for a sitting; maybe he wanted to make an appointment.  But why ask for her particularly?  As she extended her hand she noticed he already held a photograph.   _Not a complaint, please_ , she sighed inwardly.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said.  “I’m Judith Cook.”

He let out an inexplicable bark of laughter.  “Judith?”  Caught off guard she nodded cautiously.  “And you cut off Tumbler’s head?”  He displayed the photo he held, where a younger boy’s head grinned despite being separated from his body, both parts issuing gouts of blood.  Her wariness subsided.  Indeed, she was pleased someone else had made the connection; she’d giggled over it herself as she’d assembled the image.

“Well.”  She gave a little shrug, and a grin flickered across her face.  “He did ask for it.”

His grin was not so fleeting.  “Of course.”  After a beat he seemed to remember himself and, assuming a more formal smile, took her hand.  His was rougher than she’d thought it would be.  “My name is David Jacobs.  I work for the  _Sun_.  I have a proposition I’d like to put to you.”

As it was meant to, that piqued her interest.  She gestured toward the little cluster of chairs that served as a waiting area.  “Would you like to have a seat?”  He nodded and let her precede him, standing until she sat in a wooden chair.  He took the upholstered armchair near it, placed his cap on one knee and the photograph atop it, and produced a little notebook and pencil.  

“Are you familiar with the Children’s Aid Society and its placing-out program?” he began.

“I’ve heard of them, of course.  But I haven’t any personal experience with them.”  Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say, especially if he knew the boy whose head she’d removed—he looked like the kind who benefitted from such charitable organizations.  But she’d had no need for them; if anything had happened to her parents she would have gone to her grandparents in Newport, or, in the worst case, to the Hebrew Orphan Asylum up on Amsterdam Avenue.

He nodded, unruffled by her insinuation.  “Besides their lodging houses here in the city, the C.A.S. also runs the Brace Farm, up in Westchester County.  The farm is a school that prepares boys from the city for life out west; they learn how to work with animals and harvest crops, and it helps them transition from life in Manhattan to more rural areas.”

Now Judith nodded.  An inkling of an idea took hold in her brain as to what this could possibly have to do with her, though there were some gaps he’d need to fill.

Mr. Jacobs was going on.  “I’m working on a piece about the farm and some of the fellas who’ve gone up there.”  He didn’t seem to notice his slip.  “Ideally the story will run with photographs—some of the staff, the boys, the farm itself.”

Aha: there was the magic word.  She should know better than to assume anything, but his purpose seemed clear.  “Hasn’t the  _Sun_  got its own photographers?”

His expression turned sheepish.  “I’m, uh, still pretty junior.  Junior enough that they won’t send one of the staff photographers up for anything I’m working on.  And I got a Brownie and tried taking some of my own, but…”  He shrugged, mouth screwed up.

“No good?”

“The phrase used was ‘not in keeping with the paper’s high standards.’”  His wry tone was coupled with a self-deprecating eye roll.  Judith smiled briefly.

“So you’d like me to take your photos.  May I ask why?”

“You come highly recommended.”

“By the headless boy?”

“And his brother.  He said you were a natural with kids.  Anyone who can wrangle Tumbler so easily is capable of just about anything.”  It was not merely flattery (though it was that, too).  But she hadn’t time to dwell on the respect in his eyes before he went on, “And your photographs are very good.  Not just this kind—”  He tapped the trick print.  “—but your regular portraits, and the landscapes, too.”  

Judith blinked.  She could tell which portraits Papa had done and which were Mr. Till’s work, and knew that they could tell hers from each other’s as well.  But none of them were signed, and nor were the few outdoor views—of the harbor, the park, and a particularly inspiring shot of the city from Battle Hill in Brooklyn—hung around the lobby.  No one would know who’d taken them unless someone snitched, and she had a good idea who might have done that.  

“They meet your paper’s high standards?”  The words came out sharper than she’d intended; she hoped the quirk of her lips softened the sting.

“Definitely.  And you seem to meet mine.”  Her mouth opened to retort that she wasn’t sure  _he_  met  _hers_ , but she snapped it shut as he went on.  “My plan is to leave on a Sunday morning; that way we’d arrive around lunchtime.  We’d have Sunday afternoon and evening and Monday morning for interviews and photographs.  Then we’d catch the afternoon train back to the city.  My sister and brother-in-law would be happy to have you stay with them, and I’d bunk with the boys.”

Something about the way he said those words gave her pause.  Like his earlier slip, bunking with the boys sounded familiar to him, authentic.  Her eyes flicked over him again, reassessing his clothes.  There, at the hem, the trousers had been let down; a tiny patch had been sewn to the corner of one pocket.  In contrast his tie looked relatively new, and of good quality.  He met her gaze steadily, uncowed by her inspection.

A photograph, Papa said, told a story.  She found that more often than not portraits told a version of what was true, a carefully curated veracity.  The headless boy was an extreme example.  In real life he had a head, so the photo was not true in that regard; but in real life he was the type of person who wanted more blood added to the image, and he had someone who cared enough to indulge him.  That was the truth found in the manipulation. 

Every part of that job had been fun.  Like every overbearing matriarch who sat before her, the boy had had a definite vision for his portrait, and had even brought his own prop sword; but, unlike those women, he had been pliable and obedient and hilarious, bantering with his companion and all the while taking an interest in her methods.  And those hoping their photographs would help them climb the social ladder, or, at the least, appear comfortably prosperous, never asked for extra gore on their portraits.  The headless boy—Tumbler, it seemed, a name that fitted him well—appreciated that there was art in the blood, as well as blood on the art.

All that aside, what story Mr. Jacobs’ portrait would tell was yet a mystery. 

He rose, and she followed suit, never comfortable with a strange man looking down at her.  “The  _Sun_ ’s offices are on Park Row; you can send word there when you decide.  I know that this is an…unorthodox offer, Miss Cook, and I appreciate you not slapping me for making it.  But I hope you come,” he said, the keen edge now tempered by earnestness.  “I think we could do some good together.”  They shook hands again and then he was gone, leaving Judith to think over what he’d said. 

* * *

“You spoke to that young man today?” Papa asked.  

“I did.”  She speared a cucumber slice and ate it before asking, “Did you?”

Mother answered.  “Only to hear that he wanted to talk to you.”  At her raised eyebrows Mother went on, “Honestly.  He came in and asked for Miss Cook, and once again I brought her forth.”  Papa chuckled and Judith smiled, certain now that she was telling the truth.

“He knew I’d done the landscapes,” she explained, “so I thought you’d told him.”

They both shook their heads; then Papa voiced what Judith had deduced.  “It must’ve been Till.  Since the gentleman didn’t make an appointment, what did he want?”

She related the project to her parents.  From the moment Mr. Jacobs had made the offer she’d had a good idea how they would react; now she watched to see if she was right.  Upon hearing the proposed departure day they exchanged glances.  “Not worried about missing Sunday school, is he?” Papa noted.

“That doesn’t mean he’s Jewish,” she countered mildly, as if the same idea hadn’t occurred to her.  For some reason she didn’t mention his laughter when she’d introduced herself, the spark of recognition at the heroine’s name. 

“No,” Mother conceded, pulling a piece from her roll.  “But it does work out nicely for you.”

“And it’s sensible.  You know how slow Mondays are, so we won’t miss you.”  Papa’s smile assured her that he meant her absence wouldn’t be a hardship for the studio, not that they’d be happy she was away.

“You aren’t afraid to let your spinster daughter travel with a strange man?”  The intended levity sank in her stomach.  She should be married by now.  Would be, if only Heitor hadn’t…

“Judite,” her mother sighed.  The last thing Judith needed now was to be reminded of Portugal.  She didn’t look at her mother, knew the pain in her eyes would claw at the wound.  Sometimes she forgot that Mother and Papa mourned, too, that their hopes too had been dashed.  Nearly seven years had passed, but it still sometimes struck her, at the oddest moments, that this was not the life she’d been expecting.  And though she loved what she did, and loved her family, it was hard not to feel the emptiness of that unrealized future.

Mother cleared her throat delicately before she spoke again.  “You’re a grown woman, Judith, and competent to make your own decisions.  There seems nothing untoward about the offer, but the choice is yours.”  She shrugged in that effortlessly elegant way she had.

“Though as your employer,” Papa added, “I think it sounds like a grand opportunity.  A chance to test your skills in a new environment, to adapt to conditions outside the studio.  And Till would agree.”  At that understatement Judith’s frown lifted.  Mr. Till’s response would be to shove her: either out the door, or out of the way so that he could take on the project.

Everything they’d said was just what she’d anticipated; and now, having heard it, she knew it was what she’d been hoping for as well.

* * *

The New York  _Sun_ ’s building on Park Row was overshadowed by the  _World_ , just next door.  It was almost more intimidating that way; the taller building seemed comically oversized, making the  _Sun_  seem stern and businesslike in comparison.

The receptionist in the lobby, on the other hand, merely seemed bored when Judith stepped up to the desk and announced, “I’d like to see David Jacobs, please.”

“What department?” asked the whey-faced woman, her voice as colorless as her complexion.

“He’s a reporter.”  Whether or not that answered the question Judith wasn’t sure. 

When the receptionist crooked a finger a boy broke away from a small knot clustered nearby and hurried over.  “And your name, please?”

She straightened her shoulders.  “Judith Cook.”

“A Judith Cook for David Jacobs,” the receptionist told the boy, who nodded and then dashed off.  To Judith she said, “You can have a seat if you like,” though it was clear that she cared not a whit if Judith stood, sat, or jumped out of the window. 

She perched at the edge of a bench, portfolio on her lap.  From beyond the reception desk came a hubbub of voices and the clacking of typewriters.  She let the sounds of people at work flow over her, and it wasn’t long before the gofer came scurrying back and asked her to follow him. 

He led the way through the newsroom, thronged with men at desks scribbling and typing, shouting and gesticulating, to a small office whose door hung half open.  “Dave is in there with Denton,” he said, and then, rapping sharply at the door, left her. 

“Come in,” called a sedate voice.  She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

David Jacobs was already standing, just doing up the last button on his vest, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.  In comparison she felt a tad overdressed—though of course it was far preferable to being underdressed, a faux pas from which one might never recover in some circles.  Her mother had coaxed her into wearing a ruby-colored silk tie with her blouse, and the hat with the matching dyed ostrich feathers; she was right as always in saying that it brightened her up.  Judith knew her mother often thought her outfits were too somber, too old for her age.  If pressed, she would defend the practicality of dark colors and simple designs, but she could not say her mother was wrong.

Twenty-four was young to be a widow, perhaps, but just the right age to be a spinster.

Behind the desk an older man got to his feet, smiling benignly.  “Miss Cook,” Mr. Jacobs said, shaking her hand, “thank you for coming.  This is Bryan Denton.  Denton, Miss Judith Cook.”  Again his eyes sparkled at her name, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to frown.  

“Miss Cook, it’s a pleasure.  Won’t you have a seat?”  Both men waited until she sat before resuming their seats.  Mr. Denton didn’t ask how she was, or make any other small talk; if the bustle of the newsroom outside was any indication, observing such pointless niceties would be a waste of precious time.  She certainly didn’t mind getting down to business.  “I trust David explained the offer fully, but I wanted to add some details.”  He leaned back in his chair, hands folded, and gazed at her over them; at her nod he continued.  “If we use any photos, you’ll receive credit and our freelance rate.  The  _Sun_  will retain the rights to those pictures.  For now we can offer you train fare to Valhalla, and room and board at Brace Farm is taken care of.”  He nodded at Mr. Jacobs.

_If_  they used the pictures she would be compensated.  That was less than ideal.  But the opportunity intrigued her; she’d spent most of her time in either the city or Newport, and hoped that the Westchester countryside would prove photogenic.  If she went and the newspaper didn’t use her pictures, she would only have lost two days and the supplies.

Mr. Jacobs took over.  “Like Denton says, Miss Cook, it’s not a guarantee.  I hope the paper prints the story as a feature—it ought to; those kids deserve to have their stories told—but they haven’t promised a front page.  Still, we’ve got nothin’ to lose by trying.”

There was something in those words, some history behind the keen, nearly intense glint in his eyes.  Was it ambition, the desire for recognition and remuneration, or something else?  She studied him for almost too long; then, just when the moment was about to grow impolite, she slid her gaze away, back to Mr. Denton.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.  While not a façade, his mild manner likely lulled many an interviewee into revealing far more than they’d intended.

Judith nodded.  “I do.  Are you willing to contract with me based only on the opinion of a pretty junior reporter?”  Her gaze cut back to Mr. Jacobs and she smiled, hoping it would soften the sting of her question and his own words thrown back against him. 

“As long as that reporter’s David, then yes.”  The younger man seemed unsurprised by the compliment; nor did he brush it off with modesty, false or genuine.  That he took Mr. Denton’s confidence as a given made her wonder how long the two had known each other.

She presented her portfolio across the desk.  “All the same, should you care to corroborate Mr. Jacobs’ opinion, I’ve brought some samples of my work.”

Mr. Denton opened the flap of the oversized folder before settling a pair of reading glasses on his nose.  Mr. Jacobs leaned in next to him and the two studied the photographs.  They represented some of her best work, though not necessarily her favorite pieces—except for one, a striking nearly-candid shot of her mother.  Dressed in an evening gown for a gathering at Judith’s grandparents’ house, Mother had ducked into the butler’s pantry to avoid an overly curious acquaintance.  The copper pans behind her glowed in the early evening sun, casting a diffuse light onto her face; Judith had caught her with her head tipped back and eyes closed.  The contrasts in the photograph—cookware and evening dress, weary expression despite her obvious privilege—evoked a feeling in her that she couldn’t explain.

And that, after all, was why she took photographs.

When they were done Mr. Denton closed the portfolio and slid his glasses off.  “To be quite honest, Miss Cook,” he said, “these are probably too good for us.”

Mr. Jacobs grinned at him.  “Our guys’ll be jealous.”  He turned the grin to her and for a split second it was all too bright, like a flash popped off in her eyes.  She blinked away from the glow. 

They continued to watch her expectantly as she reclaimed her portfolio.  “Well?” Mr. Jacobs demanded.  “What do you say?”

Even if they were sure, she wasn’t, not yet.  She looked from Mr. Denton’s shrewd expression to Mr. Jacobs’ impatient one; the challenge she read there made up her mind.  “Before I agree,” she told him, “I’ll need a few hours of your time.”

* * *

This excursion wasn’t strictly necessary.  If she’d acquiesced she could have gone without any extra preparation and gotten perfectly serviceable shots.  But she would not have her name, and by extension that of her father’s business, published below merely serviceable images.  This trial run was to test not only her ability to capture portraits outside of the controlled conditions of the studio, but, just as important, her ability to work with her potential partner in this venture.

Mr. Jacobs was waiting when she came downstairs, her camera in a bag under one arm and tripod in a sling across her back.  It was a point in his favor that he didn’t rush to relieve her of any of her equipment, instead asking, “Want some help with that?”

She shook her head and continued toward the door—which he did hold open for her.  “If you can’t handle the gear, you can’t handle the job.”

“That’s astute advice.”  He settled the cap on his head; one curling lock of hair tumbled rakishly over his forehead.

“For which I cannot take credit.  Mr. Till taught me that, among many other important things about photography.”  It was clear he was about to ask another question, almost certainly about Mr. Till’s and her father’s business partnership, or when she knew she wanted to be a photographer; but whether the question would be a matter of genuine interest or professional curiosity she could not know.  Instead of wondering she staved it off altogether.  “Where to?”

When she’d explained that she wanted to recreate the kind of conditions they might encounter at the farm he’d immediately asked, “Conditions or subjects?”  Both, she’d said.  So now he led the way not far from the studio to a nearby street, typical of lower Manhattan, extraordinary in no way.

Before long he paused, flinging out an arm to indicate a pair of children on the opposite corner.  “Subjects,” he announced.

One was Tumbler, the headless boy; another was a small blonde girl.  Each held a stack of newspapers, and their voices could almost be heard above the bargaining and cursing that were the usual pedestrian noises in this part of the city.  She crept forward a few steps, pulling first the tripod free and then the camera, fitting the two together with less finesse than she’d like.  Capturing the pair would be a challenge, right enough; they were in almost constant motion, pivoting, arms swinging, mouths open.  And this was to say nothing of their customers and other people passing between them and the camera’s lens.  She was barely conscious of Mr. Jacobs waiting silently by her side, of anything but the light, the movement, the moment when everything aligned and she froze it with a click of the shutter.

When she looked up he was watching her, his expression inscrutable.  “Did ya get it?” he asked. 

“I think so.”  It would take going into the darkroom to know for certain, but she felt hopeful.  More than that, there was a dangerous little shiver of anticipation snaking through her, whispering for her to believe that this could be  _good_.  This work could be powerful and temptingly satisfying.  Doing her best to ignore it she jotted down the date, time, and location in her little notebook; then she hoisted the camera, still attached to the tripod, and followed him diagonally across the intersection.

As they approached Tumbler looked up and called, “Heya, Dave!”  Then, squinting, he asked, “Is that Miss Cook?”

“Hi, Davey,” the little girl simpered.  Judith bit her lip as the girl all but batted her eyelashes at him.  Out of the girl’s line of sight Tumbler did bat his eyelashes, lips curling up in a smirk. 

“Hi, guys.  Miss Cook, you remember Tumbler, and this is Gussie.”  Gussie finally tore her gaze from Mr. Jacobs; her eyes widened as they traveled over Judith’s outfit.  But her approbation was not won by clothing alone, as those eyes narrowed as she looked between the two older people.  Finally she piped, “Pleased to meet you,” and stuck out a hand covered in a fingerless glove.

“And you.”  They shook.

“You out takin’ pictures, Miss Cook?” Tumbler asked.

“Yes.  And if you don’t mind, I’d like to take yours.  You’d have to keep your head this time, though,” she added with a wink.

He grinned.  “No problem.  But ya know, the fellas all think it’s the swellest picture they ever seen.  An’ I told ’em you did it.”  His nod was one of a young man who understood the power of word-of-mouth advertising.

“Thank you,” she said.  “I appreciate that.  Some of your friends have come in already.”  The pair with the saw had kept her in stitches the entire time.

“I know.  Pretty soon you’ll have plenty of business.”  She hid a smile.  Surely Till & Cook didn’t look as though they were hurting for customers—even if they weren’t attracting clients from the highest social circles, they did steady work.  And while being known as the photographer preferred by the young laborers of the city wasn’t what she’d had in mind, she’d take the laundresses and bootblacks over the matrons any day.

“You want to take our picture?” Gussie marveled.

“If you don’t mind.”

Her braids swayed as she shook her head.  “What should we do?” Tumbler asked. 

Behind them there was a bare patch of stone wall.  She planted the tripod a short distance back, thinking.  The portraits she’d done, including those that depicted dismemberment, had been posed; she’d guided the subjects, directed them so that their photographs would tell a certain story, one they’d agreed on together.  This was different.  This project should show the subjects as they were—not as she could make them, or as they’d like to be; as they were, at this moment.  “Just be yourself,” she said at last.

Mr. Jacobs groaned, and for a second she shared his doubt, imagining Tumbler doing a handstand.  Quite to the contrary the boy himself put on a glare, staring down the camera as if it had insulted him.  It hardly suggested the Tumbler she’d photographed before.

Gussie seemed to agree, frowning up at him.  “That’s not what you look like.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, it’s not.  You don’t get people to buy papers by looking grumpy at them; you give them your nice smile.  That’s what you should do for Miss Cook.”

He muttered something under his breath that Judith almost understood, rolling his eyes as he did.  When they circled back around they caught on Gussie’s face, her bottom lip just beginning to protrude.  “Alright, fine,” he sighed.  At her cheer he smiled; they both turned to the camera, Gussie hugging a stack of papers to her chest, looking as if nothing had ever made her happier than those newspapers, and Tumbler wearing a resigned smile, head tilted slightly to one side.  Judith depressed the shutter release.

The just-exposed plate bobbled in a way that sent a spike of adrenaline through her as she slipped it from the holder and into her bag.  She slotted a new plate in with less haste.  This speed was something she’d have to work on; she usually had much more time to replace a plate.  Out here the light could change in a second, or one’s subject get bored.  “One of just Gussie now,” she said, and Tumbler shuffled away as she adjusted the tripod.  She was just barely aware of the young men talking quietly nearby.

“Want me to keep smiling?”  Gussie’s voice and rictus were both strained.

“No.”  Judith straightened to look over the camera at Gussie; at her word the girl relaxed.  “Close your eyes tight, as tight as you can.”  She obeyed, crumpling her whole face in the effort.  “Now shrug your shoulders all the way up to your ears, and hold it.”  Judith lowered herself into an ungainly crouch behind the camera; Mr. Till almost certainly would have some pithy aphorism about this, how the photographer’s temporary image mattered less than the subject’s permanent one.  “Now when I say go, I want you to drop your shoulders and open your eyes.  Alright?”

Gussie nodded, and Judith’s finger hovered over the shutter release.  “Go!” she called, and again the small body loosened.  She didn’t take the picture right away, knowing that Gussie would likely blink a few times upon opening her eyes; and, in a wonderful serendipity, in that delay Tumbler and Mr. Jacobs both laughed, and Gussie’s eyes darted toward them as she smiled, ignorant of the source of their mirth but wanting to take part in it all the same.  That curious happiness more than made up for the averted gaze, and Judith was glad to capture it.

“Now Tumbler,” she said, already raising the tripod.  As the two swapped places Judith reflected that Tumbler would require a different approach; but then any direction she would have given was superseded by Gussie prompting him to do as she’d done.  He did, though with less gusto than she had.  Again behind the camera Judith asked, “Ready?” and at his nod said, “Go.”  When Tumbler’s shoulders dropped, so did his head; he opened his eyes, blinked, then looked up through those enviably long lashes.  “Good,” she murmured, capturing the image. 

“When can we see the pictures?” Gussie demanded. 

She could have them done today if Papa or Mr. Till didn’t need her help.  Judith swapped out the plates, securing them in her bag before turning her attention to them.  “You can come by tomorrow afternoon to see them.  Thank you for your help.”  She shook hands with both of them; as an afterthought she dipped into her changepurse and brought out two nickels, handing one to each of them and taking two copies of the  _World_.  Though it was not their usual paper, she could see what passed for photojournalism in its pages. 

They said their goodbyes, Gussie promising to stop by the next day.  Mr. Jacobs led the way from the corner, but before she had gone half a dozen steps she was slowed by Gussie’s voice.

“She took my picture.  Does that mean she thinks I’m pretty?”

“I don’t know, Gus,” Tumbler said.

“Do  _you_  think I’m pretty?”

A barrel of what smelled like pickled herring could not hide her but Judith stopped behind it nonetheless, her attention on the duo.  It was hard to tell, but it seemed his cheeks were pinker than before.  He answered gruffly, “ _I_  think you’re a little kid.  Here, ask this lady.”

 A woman old enough to be the pair’s grandmother approached, and Tumbler turned on the charm.  “’Scuse me, ma’am, can you settle somethin’?  See, some people say there’s prettier little newsgirls than Gussie here, but I don’t know.”  His brow creased in doubt.  “What do you think?”

Gussie raised her face, freshness and innocence fairly beaming from it.  Judith couldn’t see the woman’s expression as she looked upon the pert countenance before her; but she heard her murmur “Dear little thing!” and saw her reach out to stroke Gussie’s cheek, earning her an airy giggle.  To Tumbler she said, “I’ve never seen one prettier.”  Then she rummaged in her purse for a coin to press into the girl’s hand before moving off.  Once she was gone Gussie peeked at the coin; then her eyes widened and she jumped up to kiss Tumbler on the cheek.  He grimaced, but didn’t push her away—at least not immediately. 

“He’s good,” Judith said, half to herself.  He’d appealed to the woman’s judgment, using a question that led her toward the answer he wanted; and with their big eyes and air of youthful promise, it would be hard to deny the pair of them anything. 

“He learned from the best.”  He’d gone ahead, but Mr. Jacobs had returned to her elbow sometime during the exchange.  Now he walked on again and this time she followed.

But with every step her stomach twisted further.  She should have told Gussie that being pretty wasn’t everything, that one’s character was more important than one’s appearance.  More than once, after her mother’s beauty had been praised, she’d heard comment on her “distinctive features.”  Even as a child she’d known that “distinctive” was no match for “beautiful,” or even merely “pretty.”  And here she’d let a child think her value lay in her looks, had let others go on believing and teaching the same.  Judith grew quietly furious with herself.  That was safer.  Pity was no match for anger. 

“I’m not walking too fast, am I?”  Mr. Jacobs’ voice broke into her thoughts.  

“Pardon?”  She looked up to see him studying her, caution and concern and curiosity in his gaze.  She became aware of her scowl, the heavy line of her brow, the tight downward curve of her mouth, and blinked it all away as best she could.  “Oh.  No, Mr. Jacobs, I was merely thinking.”

An asinine answer, she fumed, one that left her open to the inevitable remark on the hazards of female thinking, or on her unbecomingly severe expression.  His eyes slid to her and away again.  “If we’re going to be working together, do you think you could call me David?”

It was not at all what she’d expected, and the surprise cooled her temper.  “I think so,” she managed.  “It would be quicker.”

“Right.”  His smile looked a little relieved.  “But simple brevity leaves me with no reason not to call you Miss Cook.”

“If you can handle being called by your name, I can handle being called by mine.”

“Is there anything you can’t handle?”  It was half compliment, half challenge; in the mouth of another man it would sound too belligerent or, worse, patronizing.

She raised her chin, looking at him with a sliver of a smile.  “I’ll let you know.”  David’s lips tipped up in response, their eyes meeting for a moment before he looked away.

“We can’t really recreate the farm environment in Manhattan,” he explained as they boarded a trolley, “so I figure Central Park’s our best bet.”

“Mr. Olmsted would probably appreciate the comparison.  Can you tell me more about the farm?  Not what it does; what it’s like.”  It was foolish, but she felt almost shy about asking, especially so inelegantly as that.  If he thought it silly he didn’t say, instead spending most of the journey describing Brace Farm and its environs.

Once in the park he led her straight to the edge of Sheep Meadow.  She’d photographed this part of the park before, and peered through the viewfinder just to orient herself to the light, filtered through the mares’ tails and spring foliage above.  Then, straightening, she asked, “Ready?”

His confident stance faltered.  “Me?”  He even went so far as to point to himself, as if there were someone else with them that she could be asking.

“Yes, you.  I need to practice outdoor portraits, Mr.—David.”  She cocked her head, considering his chagrined expression.  “Have you ever had your portrait made?”

“Not a…formal portrait, no.”  At her raised eyebrow he elaborated.  “Denton took a picture of a group of us once.  It was less than flattering for most of us.”

“But not all of you?”

“Not Jack.  Of course.”  He chuckled, almost ruefully.  “My brother-in-law.  You’ll understand when you meet him.”

She let that vague comment slide, instead leveling a stare at him.  David fidgeted a little, glancing this way and that as if looking for a way to escape his fate; then he sighed.  “Want me to shut my eyes?” he asked.

Judith shook her head.  It would work, to an extent, at least in getting the stiffness out of him; but the very adult self-consciousness for which she could not blame him would be harder to overcome.  The things she told children to think of, things that made them happy, like their favorite foods or best friends, would have little effect.  Sitters in the studio were willing to do whatever was necessary to get the best portrait, but this was different.  “Tell me about…your sister,” she ventured.

“Sarah?” he asked, surprised.  “Why?”

“Just tell me.  Is she older or younger?”

“Older,” he said, “and she’s never let me forget it.”  He grinned, though it fled quickly as he glanced at the camera.  She nodded encouragement, and he bit his lip before going on.  “I don’t think either of us would’ve believed it if you’d said she would live on a farm, but she’s great at it.  She learned how to drive a wagon and collect eggs from the chickens and all kinds o’ things we never did on the Lower East Side.  I think she’s probably more adaptable than I am.  She’s amazing.”  He paused, his gaze far off, as if looking all the way to Valhalla for her.  Judith depressed the release as quietly as possible.

“One more,” she said, already slipping the exposed plate free. 

“One more?”  He squinted toward her, one eyebrow raised.

She nodded before ducking down again.  “Do your best impression of a not-quite-so-junior reporter.”

David laughed, and though he squared his shoulders and stared into the lens, the impression of a smile didn’t leave his face, and his eyes were sharp and lively, even if they wouldn’t show up blue.

They headed back downtown together, traveling quietly now.  It was no detour for him to pass the studio.  For blocks Judith knew she ought to tell him that the prints would be ready tomorrow, and that he could stop by, or she could bring them to the  _Sun_  if it were more convenient; but even when they reached the sidewalk outside she said nothing.

Looking bashful, he asked, “Would you mind—would it be alright if I stayed?  To see how it’s done?”

She pushed open the door with a tiny smile.  “Let’s see what develops, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to introduce a female photographer back when Skittery and Tumbler had their portrait made, but decided that would shift the focus and require too much explanation. But were women professional photographers in the early 20th century? you ask. They sure were! Noted female photographers of the era included:  
> -Frances Benjamin Johnston, who, after receiving her first camera from George Eastman himself, “became a tireless and noted advocate for women’s photography as well as a documenter of key historic events. When she opened her own studio in New York in 1894, she was the only woman photographer in the city” (The Guardian). She made several portraits of members of the Roosevelt family. In 1901 she edited a series of articles for Ladies’ Home Journal on “The foremost women photographers in America,” including Gertrude Käsebier, Emma J. Farnsworth, Frances and Mary Allen, and Zaida Ben-Yûsuf. Here’s someone’s MA thesis on Johnston; I haven’t read it, but it’s got lots of photos appended to it.  
> -Jessie Tarbox Beals, first published female photojournalist. “In 1901 she became the staff photographer for the Buffalo Inquirer (NY), a job that required her to haul around an 8 x 10 inch glass plate camera and 50 pounds of other equipment. She gained a reputation for taking photos from unusual locations, including a hot air balloon” (Tim Greyhavens).  
> -Zaida Ben-Yûsuf, a portrait photographer who “opened her own studio in New York in 1897 and quickly became sought after by socialites and wealthy business leaders because of her elegant style” (Greyhavens).  
> -And several named as “Women Experts in Photography” by Clarence Bloomfield Moore in an 1892/3 article in Cosmopolitan.
> 
> Many articles discussing the history of photography suggest that as soon as the Brownie was introduced, photographers ceased to use the dry-plate method. In 1900 Kodak’s Brownie cost $1 to buy and $1 for Kodak to develop, and that was for 100 exposures. ($1 in 1905 was just over $27 in 2017.) That, combined with its light weight, made photography more accessible to the masses. One major drawback of the original Brownie was that it had no viewfinder; you simply had to point it in the right direction and hope you were getting what you wanted. By 1905 Kodak had introduced the more sophisticated No. 3 Folding Brownie. The Kodak website notes that it wasn’t until 1913 that the company developed a portrait film to be used by professional photographers, and CBS News says that photojournalists continued to use glass plates until the 1930s. So Judith was definitely still lugging around plates—but at least she didn’t have to prepare the emulsion herself and apply it to the glass immediately before making an exposure, then developing the picture immediately afterward, as with the wet-plate process that preceded dry-plate negatives.
> 
> The Autochrome process of producing color photographs was first used by the Lumière brothers in France around 1903, and patented in 1907. 
> 
> jackcowboyhero gave Miss Cook her first name. If you’re not familiar with the story, Judith was a Jewish heroine who ended a siege by going out and righteously (in both the traditional and ‘80s senses of the world) cutting off the head of Holofernes, the enemy commander. Despite the improbable anatomy, my favorite painting of Judith is by Jan Sanders van Hemessen; Mihael Stroj's looks a bit more like Miss Cook, though.
> 
> JACK: EXTRA, EXTRA, DAVE’S BRINGIN’ A GIRL TO THE BRACE FARM!
> 
> I REPEAT!
> 
> DAVID JACOBS!
> 
> IS BRINGIN’ A GIRL!  
> TO THE BRACE FARM!  
> (also featurin’ Our Man Denton, Tumbler, an’ the return o’ Gussie Carmichael)


	91. Mustache (13 April 1905)

Roman eyed a passing gentleman; then he ran a finger above his upper lip.  “How d’ya feel about mustaches?” he asked.

“I think it would tickle,” she said absently.  When he didn’t answer Hana glanced up to find his eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.  

“Why, Miss Kollár,” he murmured, “what are you thinkin’ about?”

Though her face warmed, it didn’t stop her eyes from straying to his mouth.  She wet her lips, saw him track the movement of her tongue, and heat rushed through her.  The question required no answer, but she gave one anyway. 

“You,” she said, “like always.”

He cupped the back of her neck and lowered his lips to hers.  The kiss was brief–they were in public, after all–but blissful, and distinctly non-ticklish.  As they parted he formed words against her lips, just as he had the first time he’d told her he loved her.  She smiled and repeated the words, raising a hand to stroke his smooth jaw.

Roman leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly.  Then he opened his eyes and took her hand, saying, “Alright, no mustache.  How ‘bout a beard?”

“You are handsome no matter what,” she said, earning a smug grin, “but yes, I think a beard would be nice.”

“It wouldn’t tickle ya?“ 

She shivered, knees wavering at the thought of a beard rasping against her throat, scraping over places already made sensitive by his lips.  Her breath caught; she coughed a little.  "It would be okay.”

At first he grinned, obviously pleased by her reaction. “Okay,” he repeated, with a squeeze of her hand.  But when their eyes met she saw more than just heat, saw the longing, the yet unfulfilled yearning in his gaze.  “Guess we’ll have to wait an’ see.”

Hana closed her eyes and prayed for patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: I SPY SOME MANIACS IN A LOVENEST!
> 
>  
> 
> (Sarah says they ain’t maniacs, an’ a busy street ain’t a lovenest, BUT I CALL IT LIKE I SEE IT!)


	92. Resurrection (22 April 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

It hadn’t been easy to wrestle Joe away from the baseball game forming in the park after Mass, despite Mother’s sigh that Easter Sunday was hardly a time to play sports.  But Máša had caught him firmly by the collar, brown eyes flashing despite how her twin towered over her, and Miles had growled that Joe wasn’t going to skip out on  _this_ , not now, not after it’d taken so long for Roman to find them, and their reply was so long overdue.

It wasn’t that Joe didn’t want to write to him—he’d been as just as happy as Máša and Miles when Roman’s letters had arrived.  It was just that it was such a nice day, and the mail wouldn’t come on a Sunday anyway, and his team  _needed_  him.  But while Joe knew he could outrun Miles for a little while—he proved it every time they made the half-day trip between Grand Juction and Cedar Rapids—his older brother had also proved he could throw him over his shoulder with no more trouble than if he was hefting a grain sack, and Joe wasn’t about to be humiliated in front of his pals.  Being pulled away by your sister was understandable—at least, if your sister was Máša.  After all, Papa said she could make the Cedar River stop flowing if she really put her mind to it!  But Joe refused to be  _carried_ like the six-year-old kid he’d been when they’d last seen Roman in New York, so he supposed he’d better come along.

Despite her age and her new Easter dress, Máša had no such compunctions, hopping onto Miles’s back once she was satisfied that not too many people would see her and that Joe wouldn’t make a run for the park again.  Bright-eyed and giggling as she peeked over Miles’ shoulder, her freckles and petite frame were at odds with his windburned face and solid trudge.  He looked older than nineteen, crow’s feet already starting to crease the corners of his eyes with what might have been a squint from the sun and what might have been suspicion, a constant weighing of the world.  He remembered more about New York than the twins did.  

But Máša would always be his baby sister, and he’d never say no to carting her around like he’d done since they were children, their adoptive families making sure they saw each other often enough to keep from being strangers.

Roman was a stranger now, and that was strange.  But if Máša had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t be a stranger for long.

“‘April 23, 1905,’” she read out minutes later, her easy, looping script practiced on thousands of receipts.  “‘Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  Dear Roman.’” She looked up at her brothers.  “—What next?”

“‘How are you?’” Joe sing-songed from his perch on the counter.  

Máša shook her head. “He told us how he was.”  Inking the pen again, she wrote, “‘We are so sorry for the delay in answering.  We wanted to write it together, but Miles—”

“Miloš,” he corrected, not looking up from her words.

“He knows you changed it.”

“I don’t want him to be angry.”

She paused, considered, and then scrapped the letter.  Taking a clean sheet, she began again.  “‘We wanted to write it together, but Miloš couldn’t get here until Easter.  We hope you weren’t too disappointed.’”

“Tell him who you are,” Joe suggested.  Nudging Miles, he teased, “So he don’t think we write like girls.”

“He’ll  _know_ ,” Máša scoffed, but nonetheless she wrote, “‘This is Máša, because Miles is left-handed and smears the ink everywhere, and Joe can’t spell worth anything, even though he works in a bookstore.”

“Don’t write that!” Joe made a grab for the pen, Máša shrieked, and Miles plucked the pen out of Joe’s reach before handing it back to her.  “It’s true,” Miles said, shrugging.

“Doesn’t mean she has to tattle.”

“I’ve got to fill him in.” Her prim look had a decidedly devilish tint, and she cleared her throat.  “‘We are glad to hear you’re well.  Is Tumbler your’—”  She paused, pen hovering above the paper before it started on an “fr” for “friend,” and then went back to turn the “f” into “b.”  “—‘brother’s real name?’”

“You can’t ask him that!” Joe yelped.

“Sure I can!”

“No you can’t!  You couldn’t ask a customer somethin’ like that!”

“Roman’s not a customer!”

Miles waved them on. “He asked how we were.”

“I’d be better if you’d let me write in peace,” Máša grumbled.  “How are we?”

“‘We are all doing fine,’” Miles wrote for her, the letters shaky as he tried not to brush his hand through the fresh ink.  “‘Máša and Jonas work in a bookstore.  I work on a farm.  We are all alright.’”

“Ask him if he likes baseball,” Joe instructed, and Máša rolled her eyes and took the pen.  “‘Joe wants to know if you like baseball.  If you do, he’ll want to know exactly what you think of every player on the’—what are they, Joe?”

“The Giants and the Highlanders.  Ask him if he goes to any games.”

Although Máša copied it dutifully, she followed up with a few questions about Roman’s life: did he like his job?  Where did he live?  What had he done before working at the restaurant?  Then she looked up, biting her lip.  “…Should I tell him we have a telephone?”

Joe shrugged.  “Yeah, why not?”

“We didn’t have one in New York.”  There were a lot of things they hadn’t had, Miles thought.  They hadn’t even had each other—not all of them, not Táta an’ Matka, and before long not Roman either.  And he wasn’t sure how far waiting tables would get someone; whether Roman would struggle like to make ends meet like their parents had.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a job,” Joe said.  “I’m sure he can find a phone.”

Máša looked to Miles; Miles hesitated before nodding.  “His friend called lookin’ for my address,” he said finally.  It’d been the first time anyone besides the twins had called for him, though of course he hadn’t been in town to answer.  “Maybe he can use that one.”

So, Máša wrote, “‘If you have access to a telephone and would like to call us, we have a phone in the store.  If you give Miles a day and time, he’ll go to town and wait for your call.’”  She could imagine Miles waiting in the print shop, dusty straw hat in hand as the lone newspaperman set type behind the counter; the image of Roman was hazier, knowing that even what little she remembered from eleven years ago was surely different now.  He’d been twelve back then; now he was twenty-three, a grown man.

She hoped they were what he was looking for.

Tearing herself out of her daydreams—Mother always said there was no use in worrying—Máša listed the numbers and wrote, “‘We are so glad you found us and that you’re all right. If you want to come visit or stay, you’d be welcome.  We missed you very much and look forward to hearing from you soon.’”

“That’s sappy,” Joe said.

“It’s fine,” said Miles.

“‘With love, your sister and brothers.’”

* * *

Setting the letter down as if it might shatter, Roman just sat for a moment, a deep breath moving his shoulder against Hana’s.  He looked pale, almost sick, and when the words wouldn’t come he bit his lower lip.

“Roman?” she finally said softly.  “Miláčik—”  Lifting her hand to his cheek, she was about to ask more when he surged toward her, pulling her tightly against him and pressing his face to her shoulder.  His fingers tangled into her shirtwaist; with the way he was shaking she wasn’t sure if he was relieved or in tears.

Stroking his hair, she kissed his temple, and it was only when he turned to press an answering kiss to the crook of her neck that she could tell he was grinning.

With a sigh that was really a prayer Hana held him, her cheek resting against his curls, his heart skipping under her hand.  Eleven years had passed by without knowing whether his siblings were even alive, and two months had dragged on without an answer to the letter he and Hana had so painstakingly crafted…but then they’d answered, and all was well.

“…You goin’ to Mass tomorrow?” Roman mumbled against her neck. He’d never asked before—he knew she went every Sunday.

Still, she murmured “Yes” into his hair, and gave him another soft kiss.  “Want to come?”

And she’d never asked that, either.  She hadn’t wanted to push him; he’d come if and when he was ready.

But right then, after a moment’s pause, there was the tiniest hint of a nod, and a mumbled “’Kay” before he lifted his head for a proper kiss.

As if they could get any higher–her spirits soared.


	93. Nosy (18 April 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Tumbler, I can't figure out if you really think your friends should be proposin' already, or if you're just being a pain in the [censored].  Or maybe a little o' both?**

 

A.

‘Course I don’t think they should be proposin’!  I just wanna make sure to see it when they do.  –Unless they’re gonna do lots o’ smoochin’, but when Jack asked Sarah [Medda handed out free drinks](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/136364480047/new-years-eve-at-the-irving-or-the-boy-jewel) and I wasn’t even there to get one,  so I wanna be there this time.

Also, last time I asked Skitts, he gave me [this card](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/172949300197/yesterdaysprint-jackcowboyhero-dear-roman):

Gussie said the top lady was “horrid,” but Snipes gave me a two marbles in trade for it, so I figure the more I ask, the more cards I’ll get, an’ the more stuff I can trade ‘em for.  I don’t think that’s bein’ a pain in the anythin’, I think it’s bein’ a businessman.


	94. Brace Farm (20 April 1905)

As she packed her satchel it occurred to Judith that the last journey she’d gone on with a young man had ended in humiliation.  There were no other similarities between that voyage and this trip, though: this would only be two days, not two weeks, and they would spend that time working, and, perhaps most importantly, David was not Heitor.  At least one of the men would be offended by any suggested comparison between the two.  Heitor always was too proud, she reflected, shaking her head, a pride misplaced, undeserved.  

No, this would be different.  She doubted there would be police waiting upon their arrival to send any of them back whence they’d come.  She would comport herself professionally and capture images that she could be proud of, that would honor Till & Cook, that would illustrate David’s story to perfection, that the  _Sun_  would be mad not to run.

Speaking of the newspaper, she’d gone back to Mr. Denton’s office to read over some of David’s previous work.  It had been shortsighted of her not to do so on her first visit; but there was still time to back out if his prose was substandard.  Mr. Denton had supplied her with a folder of articles, the majority of them on the short side.  One in particular, exposing the abuses girls working in sweatshops had to endure, fairly glowed with righteous indignation at the injustice of the situation.  Judith couldn’t imagine having to do menial, mind-numbing work for hours on end in close quarters with unsavory coworkers just to make ends meet; it was obvious that David thought no one should have to put up with such conditions.  Mr. Denton hadn’t said anything as she closed the file with a decisive  _thwap_ , had only wished her a good day with a knowing little smile.

By the time she received the brief note David had sent with their departure date and time, she was packed and ready to get to work.

The night before she left Mr. Till slipped a folded bill into her hand.  “Just in case you have to high-tail it back here,” he said with a wink.

She tried to return it, pushing his hand back lightly.  “I’ll be fine,” she promised.

“I know.  Just humor me, please.”  The smile did not reach his eyes.  He had no children, and was unlikely to produce any; their relationship was not that of a parent and child.  But she did, on occasion, find herself on the receiving end of protective gestures and generous little gifts.  The five dollars she now held was likely one of the former.

As he watched she tucked the money away in her purse.  She’d find some way to return it later, when she was back and his anxiety had abated.  “Thank you, Mr. Till,” she murmured.

“Travel safely, Cooky.”

On Sunday morning Mother wished her a pleasant trip with an embrace.  Papa helped her into a cab, handing up her bags: her small satchel of clothes, her camera in its case, and a sturdy wicker hamper filled with glass plates.  He climbed in after.  A few minutes into the ride he cleared his throat, a sure sign that advice was imminent.  “I know you look upon this as a business trip,” he began, “and you should.  But, dear, I hope you also have fun.”

“Papa—”

He held up his hand.  “No, no.  You are not a soulless automaton that produces pictures, Judith.  You are a young woman.  Don’t put the lens between you and the world forever.”  Above his paternal smile, the lines around his eyes showed his concern.  Mr. Till’s worry was about her bodily safety; her parents’ was about her heart.  Each caused a bittersweet swell in her chest.

David was waiting at the platform, a small bag and a box at his feet.  He scanned the crowd, and relief washed over his face when he caught sight of her.  “There he is,” she said to Papa, nodding at David.

Papa looked her new colleague over as they approached.  “Good morning,” David said when they were within earshot.

“Good morning.”  Judith set down her satchel and turned to her father.  “Papa, this is David Jacobs, of the  _Sun._ David, my father, Tobias Cook.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cook.”

“And you.”  They shook hands; then Papa turned to her, reaching out to cup her elbow.  “Safe travels,” he said, “and remember what I said.”

“Yes, Papa.”  The gentle squeeze to her arm was as much affection as he would show in public, and with it he bid them goodbye.  

She was about to suggest they board when a voice asked, “Want a paper for the train, miss?”  The young man flourishing the newspapers was dark-haired and lanky; there was a familiar tilt to his grin as he swatted David with the papers.

“Don’t be a pest,” David warned, a faint flush of color creeping up past his collar.

“Me?”  The boy put a hand to his chest and assumed an innocent air.  “Never.”

David’s eyes rolled.  “Judith, this is my brother, Les.  He’s not coming with us.”

“Hi, Miss Cook.”  He offered a guileless smile.  “Tumbler showed all o’ us the photo you did of him.  It’s real nice.”

“You don’t think it needs more blood?” she half-joked.

He shook his head.  “Nah, not that one.  That one’s good, too, but I was talkin’ about the real close-up one you did while he was out sellin’.  An’ the one of him an’ Gussie was good, too.  You can really see their personalities.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised that David’s brother was so insightful.  “Thank you.”

“But now Mama wants you to take my picture when ya get back.”  He rolled his eyes.  “So she can show people what a ‘fine young man’ I’m turnin’ out to be.  You should’ve seen her when Dave showed her your pictures of him.  Her eyes got all wet an’ she started blubberin’ about how big an’ grown up her precious Dawidek is.”  He grinned evilly.

David’s response was in a language she didn’t understand but Les evidently did, judging from his whoop of laughter.  Scarlet-faced, David picked up his luggage, pointedly turning away from Les in the process, and, nodding at the train, asked her, “Shall we?”

She nodded.  “It was nice meeting you, Les.”  She slipped a card from her bag and handed it to him; it was more for show than anything else, since—she assumed—they already knew where the studio was, but having one’s own business card was impressive, at least.  “Have your mother make an appointment for when I return.  We’ll give her a portrait that’ll really make her cry.”  She gave him a wink, and he looked up from the card to chuckle.

They found seats by a window, which David pushed down.  “Tell Jack an’ Sarah an’ Danny I said hi!” Les called up.

“Sure.  Don’t get in too much trouble before I get back tomorrow, alright?”

Les gave one last wave and a hollered goodbye before sauntering off.  David closed the window again and fussed with his things, hauling his bag onto the rack overhead and arranging his box under the seat.  At last he settled into the seat opposite her.  “Sorry about him,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.  “He’s…he’s fifteen.”  He shrugged almost helplessly. 

“Not to worry.  I found him amusing.”

“Do you want him?” David offered, a spark of hope in his voice.  “He’s mostly housebroken.”

She shook her head mournfully.  “If it’s only mostly, then I don’t think I can risk it.”

The flush had faded from his face now, and their eyes met.  “I can’t say I blame you,” he said.  “But he’s not so bad, really.  And speaking of family, I need to ask a favor.”

“Already?”

He nodded, serious despite her teasing tone.  “It’d save my life.  If I don’t come home with a photograph of my sister and her baby, my mother will kill me.”  David gave her a smile that looked just worried enough for her to wonder exactly how angry his mother would be.

“There’s no need for you to die.”  She added it to the list in her little notebook of shots she planned to take.  So far the list was rather vague: scenery, buildings, unposed pictures of the children at work and some select portraits.  She tapped her pencil against the page, considering.  It was difficult to know how to photograph a place one had never seen before.  She supposed that was part of the challenge her father had talked about.

“Do you ride?”

She blinked up from her notebook.  “Pardon?”

“Horses.  Have you ridden much?  Jack might want to give you a tour on horseback, but you don’t have to if you’re not comfortable.”

“I have, but not much.”  The last time had been outside Lisbon.  Somehow she doubted they had a side-saddle at the farm.  “And I don’t have suitable clothes.”

He shrugged.  “It’s no big deal.  I should’ve asked before now, knowin’ him.”

“Jack is your brother-in-law, correct?”

“And best friend.  Guess I should probably fill you in on all that, too.”  He shut his own notebook.  

“Which was he first, brother-in-law or best friend?”

“Friend—and I still find that hard to believe myself sometimes.  Jack Kelly was born an’ raised in the city, but he’s a cowboy at heart.  We’ve known him since the summer of 1899.  He spent a little time on a ranch out west, but he missed his sweetheart too much to stay forever.”

“Your sister.  You said she’s older?” 

He nodded.  “Yeah.  Her name’s Sarah.  She was born here, too—we all were.  But workin’ up at Brace Farm was her idea.”  He took on an expression of fierce pride at this.  “People underestimate her because she’s a girl, and since she’s the oldest she had to help out with me an’ Les whether or not she wanted to.  But she’s probably braver than I am, and not afraid to stand up for herself, or anyone else who needs it.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Judith said.  He’d talked about her before, too, when Judith was taking his picture, and he’d smiled then, too.

“She is.  But don’t tell her I said so.”  

“I’ll take it to my grave.  I’m to stay with her and Jack, you said?”

“Right.”  He nodded.  “And their son, Danny.  He’s about seven months old and takes after his father in terms of volume.  If that’s a problem, you can stay with Red—uh, that is, Robert and Becky Lesley, some of the other staff.  Nobody’ll be offended if that’s what you want.”

“We’ll see,” she demurred, unwilling to agree before she heard just how loud the baby was.  “Is there anyone else I should know about?”

He named the superintendent and a few other members of the staff, concluding with, “And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Nell, the love of Jack’s life.”  Judith raised an eyebrow: it was difficult to imagine David excusing infidelity, particularly after hearing him praise his sister so highly.  But her certainty was shaken by his straight face, and though she was a bit too jaded to be shocked, she would admit to disappointment.

Then his mouth twitched, and she saw the mischief in his eyes.  “Nell’s his horse,” he explained.  “Though you’d never know it from the way he talks about her.”

“His horse,” she repeated flatly.  He was grinning now, boyish and proud.  “Well, I look forward to meeting all of them.”

“They feel the same about you.  Sarah and Jack do, at least; I can’t say Danny or Nell will care all that much.  What about you?” he asked smoothly, before she could even think to change the subject.  “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.  It’s always been just Mother and Papa and me.”

“Your mother’s in some of the photos on display at the studio, isn’t she?”  Judith nodded, and he said, “I thought so.  You take after her.”

She couldn’t help it; her eyes narrowed as she waited for the false compliment to follow.  Her mother was beautiful.  She was not.  Anyone who said otherwise was not to be trusted.  The silence between them grew long and awkward as he did not make such a claim; David’s brows slowly knit together as, she imagined, he tried to work out what had offended her.  “Yes,” she said at last, “I get my coloring from her.”  That at least was true.  And after a moment’s reflection she suspected she knew what he was getting at: that she didn’t look like a Cook, not the way her father did.  He’d offered so much information about his family, more than was necessary for their work; it wouldn’t kill her to do the same.  “Her family originally came from Portugal, though they’ve been in the United States for quite some time.”

He leaned forward, his eyes flicking over her features.  “In the United States.  Not in New York?  And how long is ‘quite some time’?  If you don’t mind my askin’,” he added.  That was the danger of spending time with a reporter.  But though he was shrewd and driven, David didn’t seem manipulative.  Right now he just seemed interested.  In her—her life, that was, her background.  That simple interest was more seductive than any flowery compliments.  And while she knew she ought to be on her guard, she trusted him.

“When my father’s grandfather stepped off a boat from Germany and saw that in this country it would be safer to be a Cook than a Koch, the Rodrigues family, my mother’s side, had already been in Rhode Island for two generations.”  She said it with no little pride.

“Rhode Island?”  His eyes were sparking again.  It would be a waste of a plate, with the way the train rattled and swayed, but to capture that expression she’d almost be willing to try.

But the fact that his fascination had only intensified proved that it wasn’t her he was interested in at all.  She ignored the sinking feeling of her stomach.  “New York City is not, in fact, the center of the world.”  She smiled, hoping it appeared wry and not bitter.  “It merely feels that way sometimes.”

“But why did they leave Portugal?  Why Rhode Island?” he wondered, an urgency in his voice, as if he were afraid she might not answer.  He’d get an answer, but from now on she’d be more careful.

“Oh, Mr. Jacobs, never get a Portuguese started talking about our proud maritime history.”

He leaned back in his seat, sticking out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, crossing his arms loosely over his stomach.  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he said.

She was holding forth on Magellan when the conductor strolled through the car, calling, “Valhalla!  Next stop Valhalla.”  Judith checked the watch pinned to her blouse.  The trip was not long, but the time had passed especially quickly.  David stood to pull his bag down from the rack, and she gathered her things.

As she stepped down onto the platform she heard a baby’s gurgling, followed by a man saying, “Yeah, Dan, it’s a train.  Now look for Uncle Davey.”  Without waiting for David’s direction she moved toward the voice; it belonged to a man wearing an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat.  In his arms squirmed a rosy-cheeked baby, while at his side a brown-haired woman scanned the departing passengers.  The woman looked straight at Judith and beamed before turning to the man.  Whatever she said to him didn’t reach Judith’s ears, lost under the train’s horn.

David stepped alongside her then.  “Any second now,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hey, Dave!” the man—Jack—shouted.  A grin split his face.  Sarah moved forward; since David’s hands were full she threw an arm around his neck and hugged him there.  Jack thumped his shoulder with his free hand.

“Miss Cook,” David said, “may I introduce my sister Sarah and brother-in-law Jack Kelly, and their son Danny.”  At his name the baby cooed.  “Jack, Sarah, Miss Judith Cook.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sarah said.  She had gentle brown eyes and a brilliant smile.  “Thank you so much for coming.”

Jack made to hand Danny to his mother.  “Want me to take any of that stuff for ya, Miss Cook?”

“Judith, please.  And no, thank you, I can manage.”  Out of the corner of her eye she saw David’s smile twitch higher.  “As long as we aren’t walking long,” she added, shifting her grip on the case of plates.  Pride did go before a fall, after all.

“The wagon’s right over here.”  Sarah ushered her in the right direction.  “Was your trip comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.  And remarkably quick.”  Gingerly, she placed the box of plates in the back of the wagon and slid it forward; this was followed by her satchel.  David added his things and then scrambled up, reaching down a hand for her to take.  With one hand in his and the other on the side of the wagon, she pushed up and into the wagon.  When she straightened she found herself toe-to-toe with him; the smile that hadn’t left his face since they arrived warmed slightly before he released her hand.  
  
“Here,” Jack said from below, holding Danny up, “take the kid.”  David did, settling carefully on the bench with Danny on his knee.  Jack helped Sarah to the front and then hopped into the driver’s seat, taking the reins.  “Ready?” he asked over his shoulder.  Judith sat quickly, and they were off.  
  
Valhalla rolled by, sinuous and verdant.  The air was clean, filled with the sound of hooves clopping; the team pulling the wagon moved smoothly, with the occasional toss of the head or flick of the tail.  Opposite her Danny was trying to batter David’s face with his hand; David flinched and dodged the blows as best he could without dropping his nephew.  And beyond was a pretty village, with fertile river valley all around.  It was appealing, to say the least. 

“Hey, Jack, stop a minute,” David said.  When she looked at him he was watching her over the top of Danny’s head.  She raised her eyebrows in question; he flicked his glance to the camera at her feet and then back to her eyes.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jack asked as the wagon bumped to a stop.  She barely heard David’s response, though, because she was already unfolding the tripod, splaying its legs wide in the wagon bed before carefully attaching her camera.  David shifted away as she peered through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus.  A few puffs of cloud dotted the sky; below were the green hills, fields, and the wink of the Hudson in the distance.  Idyllic, she thought.  A perfect refuge from the city; a place to start over, to begin a new life, to grow—all the things Brace Farm was meant to be.

“Alright,” she said, standing up again.  Then she came back to herself completely and turned to Sarah and Jack, who watched her with undisguised interest.  Interest, but neither condemnation nor revulsion.  She felt uncharacteristically flustered.  “Thank you.  For stopping.”

“No problem,” Jack said easily.  “’S why you’re here.  Ya good?”

“Yes, thanks.”  She unfastened the camera from the tripod and sat, cradling the box in her lap.  They started moving again and she looked across at David, given a respite now that Danny was trying to cram his entire hand into his drooling mouth.  The way he’d read her face and known she wanted to photograph the scene, the way he’d told her to take the picture without speaking…  For a moment she felt like the breath had been sucked from her lungs.  “Thank you,” she repeated quietly.

He shrugged off her gratitude.  “Gotta look out for my partner.”

Any breach in her usually impassive demeanor was shored up by his dismissal.  They’d talked so easily on the train that she’d nearly forgotten that this was work, that they were merely colleagues and not friends.  That was a hazard when one’s work was also one’s passion.  She wouldn’t forget again.  “Of course,“ she said coolly.  In turning her attention to the road before them, she caught a glimpse of his frown.

At the farm, she descended from the wagon without help.  In a field not far away another big horse pulled what she supposed was a plow through a field, a pair of young men following behind it.  It was a pleasant sight, but too far to photograph.

“If you’re anything like David,” said Sarah, at her side, “you’re ready to get started.  But there’s lemonade and sandwiches inside.”  Though Judith wasn’t sure how much like David she was, or wanted to be, her stomach was sure that a sandwich would be welcome.  Besides, Sarah’s encouraging smile was hard to resist.

As they ate their sandwiches—Sarah offered a choice of turkey or cheese, with gherkins served in a little cut-glass dish—David began, “I was thinking—”

“Quit,” Sarah commanded, lowering herself into a chair by Jack’s side.  “You just got here.  It won’t kill you to be sociable for a few minutes.”  Judith smiled into her turkey.

“How’s everybody doin’?” Jack asked.

Aggrieved, David said, “Same as the last time we talked.”  Then, pointedly, he took a big bite of his sandwich to prevent any further conversation.

That left her at their mercy.  Fortunately, the interrogation she’d dreaded did not occur.  “We’ve heard wonderful things about your work, Judith,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, ya got some big fans down there,” Jack cut in.  “Maybe later ya can explain how you make it look like a guy’s head’s cut off.”

“Of course.  And I’d gladly cut off David’s, to show you how it’s done,” she said, her steely tone and sweet smile at odds with each other.  The Kellys snickered; she did not dignify David’s response with her notice.  “How did you two meet?”

“Through Dave.”  Jack threw an arm around the other’s shoulders.  “We were partners back in our newsie days.  First day we met this kid took me home to meet his family, includin’ his beautiful, kind, patient, funny sister.”  He gazed adoringly at his wife.  “Dave even said I could stay the night when it got late.”  He jostled David, wearing a smile that was grateful and fond.  “I owe this kid everythin’.”

He looked chagrined, but not unhappy, and mumbled his thanks.  When he turned to Judith, it was with a level stare.  “You see, Miss Cook, I value my partners.”  She remembered the way he accepted Mr. Denton’s praise and advice alike, the respect he showed despite their familiarity.  Chastened, she nodded once.

“Sixty-forty all the way, right, Dave?”  The two men laughed, and they finished their lunch without further tension.

“Now,” David said, as she set down her lemonade glass, “if I may?”  Sarah gave an imperious nod and he rolled his eyes.  Judith had expected that Sarah would get up and start clearing their plates, but she remained where she sat; more tellingly, neither man registered any shock at her having a part in the discussion.  David continued, “I thought Jack and Sarah could give Judith a tour of the property while I get started on interviews with the superintendent and Red.  Then tomorrow we can talk to some of the boys, watch them work, an’ do some portraits then.  How’s that sound?”

“I got a few fellas picked out who’ll give ya good stories,” Jack said with a nod.

“You’ll have to do without me on the tour.  Danny will want his lunch soon—”  As if on cue, he began to fuss in his crib.  “—and a nap after that.  And we thought it would be good if you were there as the boys ate supper,” she said to Judith.  “But I don’t blame you if you want to eat with us after, instead of having whatever they do.”

Judith looked around the table: at David’s challenging stare, Jack’s energetic air, Sarah’s confident capability.  It was clear that this group had worked together before, and trusted each other completely.  She’d do her best to earn their trust as well; failing to do so would disgrace her.  “Let me get my things.”

* * *

“Tell me whenever ya want to stop, or if I’m talkin’ too fast,” Jack said as they started out.  He picked up the tripod, resting it on one shoulder.

“I can get that.”

“I know.  But I can help.  It ain’t fair for one person to carry all the weight while other people watch.”  At that she knew he’d give up the tripod if she insisted; she also knew that he was right.  So she nodded.

For the next two hours they tramped around the property.  She got some good views of the buildings, and one shot she had particularly high hopes for: looking down through one of the barns, a youth was petting a horse’s outstretched nose, their figures silhouettes against the light beyond.  “It’s beautiful here,” she said as she replaced the plate.

“We like it.  I don’t know what I’d be doin’ now if Sarah hadn’t had the idea to come up here, but whatever it is, it wouldn’t be near this good.”  They stood gazing over the farmyard together for a moment, sharing a quiet that she wouldn’t have thought him capable of.  

His thoughtfulness gave her an idea.  “Jack,” she said, turning to him, “if you could show people who have never been here one thing at the farm, what would it be?”

He thought briefly.  “Ya know what I wish it could be?  Some kids, when they get here they’re skinny an’ cranky an’ scared, but not too long after ya see ’em and wouldn’t know they’re the same fellas.  That’s what I’d do, show a picture of one of those right when he’s showed up an’ then later, after he’s been here a while.”

That would do it, she supposed.  “What are the odds that there are any new arrivals who fit the bill?”

“As a matter o’ fact, pretty good.  I’ll show ya tomorrow.”  He eyed her.  “But you’d have to come back again for this to work right.”

“It’s not exactly a trip to the moon.  Just let me know when he’s improved and I’ll come back.”  He nodded his approval.

On the way back to the house they stopped in a field and met Nell.  The horse was shorter and shaggier than the others they’d seen; Jack explained that she was a mustang, a Western horse, with a pride one would expect from the owner of a purebred champion.  A abashed look stole over his face as he scratched Nell’s neck.  “Could you, um, maybe…”  Though he trailed off, the hopeful glance at her camera said it all.

The love of his life, David had said, though the way he talked to her made it seem more like they were friends, for all that one of them couldn’t talk.  Judith squinted up at the sky, then at the two of them, at the light bronzing Nell’s coat and Jack’s hair.  “Can you turn her this way?” she asked.  As he cajoled the horse into stepping into position she set up the tripod.

“Hold still, ya bum,” he muttered as Nell tried to lower her head.  Judith had never tried to take a portrait of an animal before, and wondered how one made a horse focus its attention without moving.  Luckily Jack had the solution.  He fished something out of his pocket and pitched it to Judith, saying, “Here, try holdin’ that up.  Maybe she’ll look then.”

The small apple didn’t strike her as very appetizing, but it certainly interested Nell.  When Judith raised it over the camera and slightly to the side her muzzle rose, ears pricked.  “Smile,” Judith directed, and Jack, one hand firmly in Nell’s name, grinned.

When the camera was safely stowed he released Nell, who hurried to Judith’s side, nudging the pocket where she’d tucked the apple.  Judith pulled it out and allowed the horse to take it.  “How do ya stand waitin’ to see how the pictures come out?” Jack asked, a plaintive note in his tone.

“It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted.  “But I love going in the darkroom and seeing the photos slowly develop.  The anticipation is sometimes the best part.”

Though Jack’s face stilled in apparent disbelief, he was able to make a noise of vague interest.  After one last pat for Nell he escorted Judith to the dining hall, where David was conversing with some of the students.  Jack left her to take a few pictures of the boys, seated at long tables and by all accounts enjoying their meal, bland though it appeared.  By the time she was satisfied David had joined her, and together they walked back to the Kellys’.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Good.”  She filled him in on the shots he’d taken, and Jack’s idea of documenting one child’s change while at the farm.  David nodded his approval.  “And your interviews?”

He patted his notebook.  “To be honest, the adults were a little dull.  It’ll be more fun talkin’ to the kids tomorrow.”

Though she’d never show it, Judith was not looking forward to dining with the family.  Before she’d felt almost superfluous to their planning; surely the feeling would only intensify in their leisure time.  And since they already all knew each other so well, they might consider her the most interesting topic of conversation.  Even as a girl she hadn’t been effusive and open in the way that other girls seemed so easily to be, though she had had friends; and once she’d returned from Lisbon without the fiancé meant to be accompanying her she’d only retreated further, eschewing society for the comfort of the studio and Mr. Till’s tutelage.  It was little wonder some thought her aloof.  Photography was her entire  _raison d’être_  these days.

Still, when David opened the door for her, she didn’t hesitate to enter.  Jack was bouncing around with Danny in his arms, singing a rollicking cowboy song as Sarah finished setting out their dinner.  They greeted her like a friend, not a stranger encroaching on their territory; at the same time they kept the conversation on topics that she could contribute to.  Both of the Kellys expressed a desire to visit the newly-opened Hippodrome Theatre on Sixth Avenue, and when Judith admitted that she and her mother had plans to visit later that week Jack demanded that she send a detailed review.  “David’s the writer, not me,” she pointed out.  “I’d hardly do it justice.”

“Then take him an’ make sure he don’t forget anythin’.”  His fork stabbed the air to emphasize his words.  

Before too much longer David was standing and shouldering his bag.  “I’d better get to the dorm before lights out.”

“Just like the old days, huh, Dave?”

“Yeah, because you had so much respect for curfew back then.”  The two shared a grin.

“C’mon, I’ll walk with ya.”

David wished Danny and Sarah goodnight.  Then he stood looking at Judith, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.  “See you in the morning,” he said at last.  “Sleep well.”

The words felt hollow somehow—or maybe she was the hollow one.  “You as well,” she murmured.

When they’d gone, arms slung around each other, there was quiet in the little house.  Sarah continued puttering around the kitchen; her ease only heightened Judith’s feeling of awkwardness, though she could think of nothing to do that would remedy it without appearing abrupt and impolite.

It was a relief when Sarah returned, drying her hands on her apron.  “You know where the facilities are, you have towels…  Is there anything else you need?”

“Yes, actually.”  She pulled the other woman down to sit next to her and explained what she had in mind.

Sarah was clearly pleased at the idea—David’s, Judith was sure to point out.  “First thing in the morning won’t work, because Jack gets up early, but he’s not really awake.  Before you go will be best.”  She glanced down at her skirt and shirtwaist still covered with an apron, and a rueful smile crossed her face.  “We won’t look as fancy as your usual customers, I’m sure.”

Judith laughed.  “You won’t want any limbs removed or extra blood added, either.  My clientele these days is a bit more…eclectic than it has been in the past.  I rather enjoy it.  And I suppose the thanks is due to Tumbler for that, and for all of this.”  She shook her head in disbelief.  “I wouldn’t have conceived of a project like this on my own.  It’s a surprise to find myself a type of Lewis Hine.”

“I guess now that more of the boys have a little extra spending money, they can buy things like portraits where they’re chopping each other in half.”  Sarah rolled her eyes, though fondly, and Judith itched to know more about these “boys,” who were almost certainly men by now.  “I’m glad David found you so easily.  I think he believed he could be the next Jacob Riis until he saw how his photos came out.  His writing is wonderful—you should read some of his letters—but he’s no artist.  This article means a lot to him, and having someone he can rely on to provide the photographs is a relief.”

That she could be relied upon had always been a given.  Why now did it feel so heavy, like a sandbag across her shoulders?  Reliable Judith, dull as dust.  A tad stiffly she replied, “I’m sure his career will benefit if the feature runs.”

The glance Sarah shot her was sharp, though her tone remained mild—deceptively so; Judith was beginning to realize that Sarah was just as fierce as her brother, and likely as intelligent.  “Every writer wants his byline on a feature.  But David wants to help people, especially kids who don’t have many other chances.  We all do.  That’s why we’re here.”  In the air hung her unspoken question:  _Why are_ you _here?_

“Forgive me,” Judith said, “I didn’t mean to suggest that his motives were self-serving.  I simply…”  She looked around the homey room, and then sighed.  “I’m not sure where I stand.  I don’t have much experience with this kind of photography, so I’m not certain the paper will be able to use the pictures, or even if they’re what he wants.  I’d hate to think this trip was a waste.”

Her expression thawed, at least somewhat.  “He wouldn’t have asked you if he didn’t believe you could do it.  And Denton wouldn’t have let him if  _he_  didn’t, either.  So don’t worry about that.”  She looked at Judith with an expectant expression, as if she knew there was something else on her mind.

Judith didn’t want to say anything else.  She didn’t want to admit to her eccentricities; she didn’t want to expose her habits, particularly not to someone she barely knew, someone who would view them as shortcomings and weaknesses.  She didn’t see them as such, though maybe they were, if they led to problems like this.  And yet she found herself speaking, unable to stem the tide though the words were slow.  “If I’m being candid,” she said, “I don’t usually spend so much time with people.  Most sittings don’t take long, and once they’re done, I often don’t see those people again.  The ride here was the longest I’ve spent with someone my age, a peer, in a while.”  That she’d enjoyed it did not need mentioning.  “I suppose I’m out of practice.”  
  
“You’re doing fine for the most part.”  Judith couldn’t fault Sarah for adding the last part, and indeed trusted her all the more for having said it.  “And if you want more practice when you get back, stick with Davey.  You’ll have a dozen new friends before you know it, whether you want them or not.”    
  
“The boys you mentioned earlier.”  At Sarah’s nod she asked, “Forgive my ignorance, but who are they?  They seem important.”

She blossomed into laughter.  “They’d be glad you think so.  We just mean the other newsboys—well, former newsboys now, most of them.  A group of them lived at the CAS lodging house on Duane Street, and we went through the strike together in ’99.  You’ve met a few of them,” she said, “Tumbler and Skittery, and Dutchy and Specs.”

“Don’t any of them have real names?” she wondered aloud.  “What did they call Jack?”

“Cowboy, of course.”  Sarah grinned.

“Of course.  And David?”

In his crib Danny mewled, and she rose.  “Stick around and maybe you’ll find out.”

* * *

The next day began too early for Judith’s liking, but she downed a mug of coffee and gathered her equipment.  Today she and David would work together, interviewing and photographing individual boys.  They had a lot to do before their train back to the city. 

Jack introduced them to one of the newest arrivals, a boy the others called Ham.  As promised, Ham was sullen, scared, furtive; he seemed to be regretting his choice to come to Brace Farm.  Though disinclined to answer any of the questions David put to him, he did nod when she asked to take his picture.  Her first instinct was to do something to make Ham smile.  While it would have taken abilities far beyond hers to coax a smile out of him, not trying at all felt foreign.  She managed to capture a full-length shot and a bust of the boy, his white-blond hair and pale skin ghostly against the backdrop of wooden wall behind him.  “All done,” she murmured when the exposure was made, “thank you,” but he was already scurrying away.

There was a touch on her shoulder as he left.  “Okay?” David asked.  His hand didn’t linger.

“Yes, I think they’ll be fine.”  She set about exchanging the exposed plate for a new one.  “How long should we wait before I come back and take the follow-up photos?”

He didn’t answer for a moment.  Then, with a little shake of his head, he said, “It depends on how he does, when he’s ready to leave.  Jack’ll let us know.”

The rest of her subjects were much less pitiful.  David asked questions as Judith took pictures, and they both jotted notes.  A feeling of near incorporeality suffused her, a comfortable lack of awareness of herself that came when she was lost in her work.  She reveled in the feeling: in the power she held when she was at work, in the respect people held for her mystical ability to freeze images, to stop time.  And, of course, people cared much more about how they looked in front of the lens than about how she looked behind it.  At one point she overheard a joke one of the boys made in answer to David’s question and laughed, glancing up to see the amused tilt to his lips as he scrawled in his notebook, his eyes focused, afire.  She looked away, her mouth all of a sudden cottony.

Only a few plates were left unexposed by the time they made their way back to the Kellys’.  “Have you got enough to work with?” she asked David. 

“Plenty.”  He nodded.  “I got a few ideas to follow up on, but I can do that from New York.  Besides, I’ve been here before, so it’s not like I’m starting from nothin’.  What about you?  You looked awfully intent before.  I hope you had a good time.  And got all o’ the shots you wanted,” he added, in a rush.

“Almost,” she said, allowing herself an enigmatic smile before hurrying forward.  “Come on.”

The door was flung wide open, heedless of dust blowing in; the windows’ curtains would be pulled back, too, and the lights on.  “I just burped Danny,” Sarah announced as they entered, “so we don’t have long before he falls asleep.”  Burped meant recently fed, which Judith knew meant that he’d be sated and sedate.  A sleepy baby was easier to photograph than a wakeful one…or so she hoped.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jack asked.  It was a valid question if one had returned home expecting lunch and found instead an improvised studio.  Judith quickly unfolded the tripod and secured the camera in place.

“Did you think you’d get away without having your picture taken?”  He grinned at the wink she sent his way, keeping the photo with Nell between them for the time being.  “But we’ll start with Danny first.  Hold him as upright as you can, Sarah, and Jack, come here.”  He joined her obediently, standing to one side.

“You know what Mama would say if I brought a photographer all the way up here an’ didn’t get her to take a picture of Danny.”

In a faint accent Jack said, “ _A shanda_ , David, all that way Miss Cook took her camera and you didn’t get a picture of my sweet Daniel?”  She couldn’t judge whether or not the imitation was good, but David’s chuckle and “Exactly” meant it was.

Blindly, not looking away from the viewfinder, she caught the edge of Jack’s cuff and pulled him closer.  Danny’s gaze followed him long enough for her to see that if Danny would only keep looking that direction, the photo would be fine.  “Jack, can you get his attention?”  Jack obliged, calling his son’s name and doing something that made him giggle.  There would probably be some blur in the image, but that was all but inevitable with babies.

Judith slid in a new plate, noting with some satisfaction that she’d gotten quicker at it, and raised the tripod.  “Now, Jack, stand behind Sarah, and a little to the left.”  As he took his place she clarified, “Your left, not mine.”  Without prompting he put his arm around Sarah’s shoulders and looked down at her and Danny with a soft smile.  It was beautiful—both aesthetically pleasing and sentimentally touching—and though she wished she could capture it, she was running low on plates.  “If you could look this way, please,” she requested, “and David, do something funny to make Danny laugh.”  Whatever he did made Sarah laugh instead, and Jack’s smile looked a little painful, but she suspected Mrs. Jacobs would love it all the same.

Judith straightened as she put in the last plate.  “One more left,” she told them.

“C’mere, Dave,” Jack called.

“What?  No.”  He rubbed his hands down his trouser legs, shaking his head.

“What, you think your ma don’t want to see ya?”

“She sees me every day!  She’s tired of seein’ me.”

“Then this one’ll be for us.”  Jack reached out a grasping hand for him.  
  
It was Sarah who broke the stalemate.  “David, come here,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.  David ventured a helpless look at Judith; she merely raised her eyebrows: it was not done to question a woman’s authority when one was a guest in her home.  With a long-suffering sigh he slouched toward the group.  
  
“What should I—”  The rest of his question was cut off by Jack throwing an arm around him roughly and pulling him close to his side.  David staggered into him with a whoosh of breath, tugging his shirt back into place as he righted himself and then raising his arm to Jack’s shoulders; then, pink-cheeked, he looked at her and asked, “Is this alright?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  But, while Jack’s hand still rested on Sarah’s far shoulder, David’s presence threw off the balance of the earlier grouping, leaving him looking very much an afterthought.  That wouldn’t do, and was simple to fix.  “Sarah, if you could turn your chair toward David a little…there.  Now turn your head and shoulders to face me.  Perfect.”  
  
She took a quick look in the viewfinder and then raised her head to study them all: from drowsy little Danny to indomitable Sarah, boisterous Jack and inscrutable, impassioned David.  They were a family like none she’d ever photographed before, and, she was sure, like none she ever would again.  Filled with a contentment that did not belong to her she smiled, saw them smile back.  “Don’t change a thing,” she said, and pressed the shutter release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawidek = Polish diminutive of David
> 
> a shanda = Yiddish for “for shame”
> 
> JACK: LOOK AT MY WIFE BEIN’ THE BEST (and Nell practicin’ to be Queen o’ New York, as soon as Dave listens to my idea to write a feature on mustangs)


	95. Appointments (30 April 1905)

“ _You see, photography is an art of discovery, rather than of invention_.”    
a Mr. Rockwood, quoted in “[Photographic Fads](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fchroniclingamerica.loc.gov%2Flccn%2Fsn83030214%2F1900-02-18%2Fed-1%2Fseq-30%2F&t=NmY2Y2NmNWY5NjlhYzdmMTAwNTMyNjIyNmNjOGZkY2M0NmFlMGUxOSxVOUtHM2RCZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173468147835%2Fyou-see-photography-is-an-art-of-discovery&m=1)” in  _The New-York Tribune_ , 18 February 1900

 

Upon her return from Brace Farm, Judith found that Mother had blocked out all of Tuesday and Wednesday for her to work in the darkroom.  Thursday was thus far empty, and until early afternoon on Friday she’d be handling reception duties, as usual.  Her first firm appointment was on Sunday, for a Mr. L. Jacobs; then the following Wednesday afternoon she had a Miss H. Kollar.  The latter meant nothing to her, but she suspected that the former was Les, his mother making good on her threat to have him photographed.

Her hunch proved correct when she entered the studio to see him waiting.  “Hello, Les,” she called, smiling.  “I was hoping to see you today.”

“Hi, Miss Cook.”  He pulled off his cap, revealing hair so thoroughly oiled that it didn’t budge.  This was, she reckoned, not his doing.  He returned her smile and waved an older woman forward.  “Mama, this’s Dave’s friend Miss Cook.  An’ this is my mother, Esther Jacobs.”

Her hair was far lighter than any of the siblings’, her eyes a grey echo of David’s blue.  A fine webbing of lines radiated from those eyes.  Her complexion was still creamy and clear, though, and while her dress was not new, it was neat and fit well.  They exchanged a genteel clasp of hands. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jacobs.  I’ve quite enjoyed getting to know all of your children as well.”

Her satisfaction was evident.  “Thank you.  They all have good things to say about you, too, especially David.”  Judith wondered at that for a second, almost hoping she would say more; when she went on it was to add, “And Tumbler is very proud of his headless photo.”

Was there anyone in lower Manhattan he hadn’t showed that picture to?  “He’s been an excellent model and spokesman both.”  She ushered Mrs. Jacobs to sit in one of the prop chairs, and took a seat on another herself.  “Now tell me, how would you like Les photographed?”

“Wearin’ a cowboy hat, with a pair o’ six-shooters!” was his suggestion, accompanied by a bandy-legged stance and thumbs hooked in his waistband.  Clearly his brother-in-law exerted quite some influence on him.

His mother shushed him, though not without fondness.  “He should look like a respectable young man,” she said, giving a decisive nod.  In turn, Les mimed an enormous yawn.

“You’d like it full-length, of course.  And I assume you’d like him standing?”  She nodded, so Judith rose and beckoned to Les, who came to her side.

The backdrop currently displayed was one of the fussier ones, painted with roses twining around a fluted column before a distant lake.  “Help me with this, would you please?” she asked.  It would be little trouble to change it alone, but enlisting his help would make him more invested in the portrait.  After a moment of glancing from the mottled backdrop to his tweedy suit and back she decided on the plain one instead.  Featureless but velvety-looking, it would not detract from what she wanted to convey of him.

As they switched the backdrops Mrs. Jacobs ventured, “It’s convenient that you’re open Sundays.”  Judith couldn’t blame her for the cautious tone.

“It’s certainly best for business that we’re open all week.  Not all of our customers take their Sabbath rest on the same day.  Here we are,” she said to Les, “thank you.”

“But you can’t work every day!”  She sounded concerned—maternal—more than curious now.

Judith rummaged through the pedestals before finding the one she wanted.  She plucked the fake robin from it and set it in front of the backdrop.  “Oh, none of us do.  Mr. Till works Tuesday through Saturday, and we work Sunday through Thursday.  All the days are covered, and everyone gets a rest, too.”  She offered a quick smile before crossing to the wardrobe.  Somewhere, hidden among the robes and accessories, was the item she was looking for.

As she searched it occurred to her that it was a little cruel to keep Mrs. Jacobs fishing for information.  What discreetly probing question could she ask next—about how they’d spent Easter, or maybe Pesach?  And if Judith trusted David, couldn’t she trust his mother?   _Not necessarily_ , the mean part of her hissed.   _You shouldn’t trust him so much at that_.  To spite that voice she leaned out of the wardrobe and called, “We do the same for holidays.  We’re surprisingly busy on Christmas and Easter—people want to show off their new clothes.  Mr. Till takes those days off, and keeps the studio open while we’re at synagogue on Yom Kippur.”  Then she put her hands on the thing she wanted and said, “Aha!”

That had gotten Mrs. Jacobs’ interest, though she did her best not to look too eager.  “Where do you attend?”

“Shearith Israel.”  Mother proudly told visitors that it was the oldest Jewish congregation in the city, founded by Sephardim and predating the Revolution by over a century.  But, she would be sure to add, Touro in Newport was the oldest synagogue in the entire country.  Then Papa would call her a snob, and she would retort that there was nothing wrong with being proud of one’s heritage. 

Mrs. Jacobs’ lips pursed.  “That’s a long walk.”

“Which is why we only make it on the high holy days.”  She gave a little shrug.  Though she generally didn’t feel guilty about not going more often, Judith didn’t want to risk seeing Mrs. Jacobs’ disapproval.  “Do you go to Eldridge Street?”  It was the nearest synagogue to the studio, and she presumed to their home. 

She was more than a little relieved when Les jumped in to answer, proving her assumption true.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You should come with us sometime if ya don’t want to walk so far.  You’d like it; it’s a real pretty buildin’.”

At that she paused, unseeing eyes focused on the hat in her hands.  Was there such a thing as pathological hospitality, and if so, did it run in families?  The Jacobs siblings would invite a person somewhere at…well, at the drop of a hat.  Trying to convince herself that their friendliness didn’t mean anything was harder than it ought to have been, in part because she didn’t want to believe it was true.  With a shake of her head she again focused her attention on the task at hand.

She pulled a three-legged stool near the post and placed the hat on it.  Mrs. Jacobs wouldn’t let Les wear the cowboy hat, but perhaps having it nearby would placate both of them.  Les grinned, and while Mrs. Jacobs looked less enthusiastic, she didn’t protest.

“Something is missing,” Judith mused aloud.  She crossed her arms and tapped one forefinger against the opposite elbow.  Mother and son watched her expectantly, while she in turn scrutinized Les.  Still shy of six feet, brown eyes, open expression, hair unmussed by his cap, the kind David still wore even though he wrote for the newspaper now instead of selling it—  There, on a side table, under a basket of wax fruit, was what she needed, and she snatched it up.  She tucked the folded newspaper under the hat, then guided Les into position, the faux fencepost by his elbow and the stool on the other side and a bit behind.  Standing back to consider the effect she saw that it was good, generally, but a little stiff, as Les stood up straight as she’d left him.  Stepping forward again she instructed, “Rest your weight on the post”; he immediately planted his elbow on it, leaning insouciantly and even hooking the toe of one shoe around the opposite ankle.  She laughed.

“I meant on your  _hand_ ,” she clarified, taking hold of his shoulders to pull him upright.  He didn’t look sorry at all as he apologized.  He did, however, plant his palm, and let her adjust his stance until he was just barely leaning, looking more at ease than he had at first.  Judith stepped out of the way and turned to Mrs. Jacobs.  “What do you think?”

Judith noted that her gaze had to shift away from her before it could focus on him.  “It’s not what I had in mind,” she began, and Judith’s heart sank a little.  She knew she hadn’t read Les wrong, and had hoped that this would satisfy his mother.  Then she went on, “But it is good.  It is very like him.”  The critical edge left her eyes and she smiled at him.  Judith let out a breath.

She hurried to the camera, knowing that no matter how natural and relaxed the pose looked now, in no time it would be stiffer than the post he leaned on.  “Now, Les, look here,” she said before counting to three and taking the picture.  She found herself hoping very much that they liked it—all of the Jacobs family.

“Doesn’t take very long,” he mused, stretching from his pose as if he’d been in it for hours instead of a minute.  “How’s it work, anyway?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”  She waited until he’d joined her before sliding free the exposed plate and putting it with the others bound for the darkroom.  Then she fit in a new plate.  “Now it’s ready to expose.  Look through the viewfinder, there.”  She twisted the lens carefully to adjust the focus, grinning at his hushed exclamation of awe.  “Here’s the shutter release,” she said, putting it into his hand; then she leaned in close and whispered, “Don’t push it until I say.”

Judith swept up the pedestal and stool, the hat and paper.  In its place she centered one of the velveteen-upholstered chairs.  “Mrs. Jacobs, if you would?” she asked, extending a hand; Mrs. Jacobs rose slowly and crossed the floor, standing next to her with a hint of a frown creasing her brow.  “I want to show Les how the focus works,” Judith explained, “and it helps to have a person to focus on.”  Though Mrs. Jacobs looked doubtful about that she sat, sitting up straight and folding her hands demurely in her lap.  Judith limited herself to only a few of the minute adjustments a photographer had to undertake to ensure the best possible portrait; then she joined Les.

“Is she in focus?” she murmured.  He moved the lens a fraction before saying, “Uh huh.”

“What do you think of her expression?  Remember, though, what’s important isn’t the photographer’s opinion; what’s important is whether or not we’re showing the client how she’d like to be seen.”  That was one difference between portraits done here in the studio and those she’d done at the farm; though the latter subjects weren’t paying for her services, she still felt a responsibility to represent them truthfully.

“She looks kind o’…wary, I guess, still.  That’s not the face she’d want in a picture.”  Before she could ask him how to coax a more pleasant expression onto her face he started humming, just loud enough for Mrs. Jacobs to hear; though Judith didn’t recognize the song it was clear that Les’ mother did, as first one corner and then the other of her mouth lifted.  “Now?” he whispered when she was smiling.

Judith nodded.  “Now.”

* * *

Three people stood waiting on Wednesday afternoon: a familiar-looking young man who held the hand of a woman with thick brown hair artfully arranged, and a fashionably-dressed blonde girl.  “ _One_ , Roman,” said the brunette.

“Nah.  We need at least a dozen.”  He counted off on his fingers as he enumerated recipients: “One for your folks, an’ for Jozef, an’ Tumbs.”

“He doesn’t want one.  Anyway, that is only three.  What will you do with the rest of them?”

He grinned at her.  “Put ’em on the walls in my room.”  She managed to roll her eyes even as she blushed. 

“What about me?” demanded the blonde, planting her hands on her hips.  “You’re getting a dozen—”

“One,” the other woman interjected mildly.

“—and you can’t spare one for me?”

“Nope, not if I’m paying for ’em.  Why’re you here anyway?” the man sniped, though without malice.

“Perhaps I’m thinking of having a portrait made,” the blonde suggested coolly.  “Besides, Hana invited me.”

He snorted.  “‘I’m thinkin’ o’ havin’ a portrait made,’” he parroted.  “Of you, or of Calvin?”  He said the name in an obnoxious sing-song fashion, and two spots of color bloomed in her cheeks as she scowled at him.  He was about to go on when the brunette said something quiet but firm in a different language; annoyance flashed across his face until she smiled.

This seemed an opportune moment to step in, literally as well as figuratively.  “Miss Kollar?”

The brunette nodded, gently loosing her hand from the man’s grasp as she turned.  “Hana Kollár.  This is Pauline Hermann—”  The blonde gave a friendly smile.  “—and Roman Kučera.”

When she got a good look at him Judith recognized the man.  “Yes.  You came in with Tumbler.”  And she remembered seeing the portrait Papa had done of the two young men.

“Yeah.  He said to say hi.”  Judith supposed she ought to feel lucky that he hadn’t come along as well.  This party seemed quite lively enough as it was. 

“Now, Miss Kollár—”

“Hana is fine.”  Her fingers twitched the fabric of her skirt.  Nerves, Judith diagnosed; someone who preferred not to be the center of attention.  It probably wasn’t her idea to have the portrait done, and it probably didn’t help having the other two there, even if they were all friends.

“It’s you being photographed?” Judith asked gently.  Hana nodded, fingers twisting.  “Well, you certainly look lovely.  Would you prefer to be seated or standing?”  She led the young woman away from the others, getting her approval on the mottled backdrop, suggesting she stand next to a simple column around which Judith twined a vine of roses, and complimenting her hair.  The nerves faded somewhat, but she was still not entirely at ease, especially when Judith stepped behind the camera.

Judith chewed on her lip, considering her approach.  Empty flattery wouldn’t charm her into smiling, and she couldn’t exactly ask the others to leave, not when one had been invited and the other was paying.  As long as they insisted on being there, maybe she could use them. 

Instead of trying to coax a reaction from Hana, she addressed Mr. Kučera.  “Why are you having this portrait made?”

“Huh?”  She could feel everyone’s attention on her now.  That was a start.  She turned to him, keeping Hana in her peripheral vision. 

“Why do you want a dozen photographs of Hana?”

Although he chuckled at that, he didn’t answer right away.  She held in a sigh.  With their pretensions and reputations and fragile dignity, adults were so much more difficult than children. 

After a moment he said, “Why wouldn’t I want a dozen pictures o’ her?  Look at her—she’s beautiful.”  Though the direction was rhetorical, Judith took the opportunity to turn her attention back to Hana.  The woman blushed and looked down, though her eyes slowly rose as he kept talking, his words quiet and deliberate.  “Maybe I can’t give her everythin’ she deserves yet, but I can do this.  Show her how wonderful she is.  An’ no matter what happens, I’ll have a picture to remind me that the best person I ever knew loved me.”

None of the delighted newlyweds, none of the doting parents she’d photographed had ever looked so radiant as Hana did, her eyes fastened on him.  Judith barely remembered to press the shutter release and take the picture—and she would have hated herself if she hadn’t captured that glow, that devotion and contentment and joy, that hope she dared for a moment to feel. 

The atmosphere was broken by Miss Hermann blowing her nose. “There are times when you’re a halfway decent person after all, Roman,” she sniffed. In lieu of a retort he strode over to Hana and kissed her with the utmost tenderness. Judith busied herself with the plates, dismissing the odd emptiness inside as hunger.

As she delivered her plates to the darkroom she noticed Miss Hermann at the desk with Mother. Turning to go, the young woman caught sight of Judith and waved her little appointment card. “See you soon!” she called cheerfully.

Judith smiled back, nodding, and then stepped into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I’ve made any mistakes related to Judaism, please let me know. I wasn’t able to find all of the information I was hoping to, so sources would also be appreciated.
> 
> JACK: You think the Brace Farm would mind if I covered the walls o’ our place in pictures o’ Sarah an’ Danny an’ Nell? I think Skitts is onto somethin’.


	96. 1897 (4 May 1905)

It turned out that they didn’t let you into the United States if you’d nearly killed a man on the crossing.

She clutched her passport, the light cardboard creasing under her worried fingers.  Next to her stood her grandmother, silent and apparently unmoved; despite her outward calm Judith knew from her grip on the railing, knuckles bone-white in a lattice of blue veins, and her too-even breaths that she was furious and mortified.  The Ellis Island police led Heitor away as the whole ship watched—but only after orderlies with a stretcher had borne away the poor man he’d pummeled.  Around them hundreds of voices chattered about the incident, about the perpetrator and his victim, about their companions, and Judith tried desperately to recall the name of Mr. Till’s friend the law clerk. 

After long weeks in Portugal being called Judite or  _senhorita_ , the English pronunciation of her name sounded hard, especially from the mouths of the police inspectors.  Though she and Grandmother were both American-born, she was terrified that they would not let them return home because of their association with a foreign criminal.  The police bombarded her with questions: Had Mr. Carvalho known the victim before they boarded?  Was he prone to violent outbursts, or was this behavior unusual?—as if such ferocity, such an absence of empathy could be termed something so slight as “unusual.”  Had he seemed agitated, nervous, paranoid?  Where had she been when the incident had occurred?

In her cabin, asleep.  She hadn’t known that Heitor had spent his nights at sea gambling with a few other passengers and occasionally some members of the crew.  He hadn’t lost much, she learned later, small comfort that that was; he hadn’t even been drunk that night, which was no comfort at all.  “Seems one o’ the other players had been makin’ jokes at his expense,” explained one of the officers, flipping through his notebook, “’bout how he couldn’t find a wife willin’ to put up wit’ him an’ so had to marry some horse-faced cousin for her money.”

It wasn’t her money, and what money there was wasn’t much.  She’d suspected it had played a part in his decision to marry her; still, the unvarnished truth stung more than she expected it to.  “Second cousin,” she mumbled.

That drew his attention away from his scrawled notes.  “Eh?”  

She looked up then, anger blazing through the numbness, burning up the shame.  “He was to marry his horse-faced  _second_  cousin,” she repeated, every syllable uttered with a sharpness that could cut glass, “me.”  The officer might have blushed at that, might have looked abashed; he did not contradict her, though, and nor did he apologize.  But she didn’t see his reaction, that one brief flare of wrath leaving her spent, head bowing and shoulders slumping ungracefully.

Finally satisfied that she and her grandmother had had nothing to do with the beating—a blow to the man for every one to Heitor’s ego—the police released them.  Judith assumed that Grandmother had spoken to the police, but she had hardly said a word to her granddaughter since the incident.  Some part of her grandmother blamed Judith: blamed her for being unable to find a husband on her own, for being unable to prevent him from misbehaving.  If only she were pretty, this never would have happened.  Grandmother believed that; some days Judith did, too.

Within hours of their return to Manhattan Grandmother was on a train back to Newport, unwilling to spend even one more night in Judith’s company.  Mother tried her best, pleading and remonstrating by turns; still Grandmother did not waver, only saying that she would let Isabela know when she was safely home.

All Judith wanted was to disappear.  Hiding in Newport wasn’t an option, not with her grandmother sick of the sight of her.  Even if she felt welcome among her own family there, it was also where the wedding was to have taken place.  No, she had no desire to go to Rhode Island.

But staying in New York required tact that she hadn’t a hope of mustering.  Mother took charge, telling acquaintances that Heitor had fallen gravely ill in Portugal and was unable to make the voyage.  The beating had made the newspapers, and though the newsboys took to the story with relish, no one seemed to connect near-murderer Heitor Cravalho to poor Miss Cook’s missing fiancé.  At the very least, no one mentioned it to her if they had.  The lie about his health gave her the excuse to stay at home for weeks; perhaps their circle truly believed that she was fretting.  As weeks went by, though, their concerned questions to Mother grew fewer.  Judith found herself wondering if they’d ever believed her fiancé was real, if even now they shook their heads and gossiped about how she’d pretended to go to fetch him and invented an illness when she had to return empty-handed.  The wedding date approached and then passed, and bitterness threatened to take root in Judith’s heart.

But she hadn’t been jilted.  Heitor had never loved her, nor she him.  For a while she’d believed him when he said that he’d be faithful nevertheless, but her mind had changed even before they’d boarded the ship.  There was nothing overt, no flirtation with other women or even an especially wandering eye; it simply became obvious that she could not hold his attention for long.  He was cordial when they spoke, though they did little more than chat; on those occasions she’d found it strange that he’d asked few questions about New York, a place he’d never been before and that would be his new home.  Yet he seemed entirely uninterested in hearing about the city, as terrible and glorious as it was.  And pretty or not he had kissed her once or twice; while the experience hadn’t moved her to rapture she’d thought she could learn to enjoy it. 

Grandmother’s proposal of the match had caught her by surprise.  Her sister in Porto had a grandson just a few years older than Judite, she’d explained; he needed a good wife, and he wouldn’t mind coming to America and working in the studio: he was supposedly good with arithmetic and could help with the accounting.  Mother and Papa had left the decision to Judith, and if they had doubts they had not shared them with her.  But wasn’t this what was expected of her, that she make a decent marriage, help her family and help the business?  And she’d had no other offers, could not expect anything better than this.  She could do her part for all of them simply by saying yes.  So she did, and with Grandmother had sailed for Portugal in the spring to meet the man she was to marry.  

There were worse ways to spend the beginning of summer than sitting by the river drinking strong, sweet wine, and if one’s intended groom seemed diffident and distant he was probably just shy, and understandably wary about the coming changes to his life.  He would have to leave behind his family and all of his friends for a new country, a new home with a young woman he hardly knew for his wife, a young woman whose Portuguese faltered and whose face did not inspire instant affection.  They would have plenty of time to get to know each other, their elders said, two weeks on the westward voyage and then the rest of their lives together.  Not for the first time those words had caused a twinge of apprehension about the enterprise; she managed to dismiss it every time.  The way Heitor’s eyes had darkened at the comments stayed with her, though, chilling her even through the muggy night.

At 17 she believed that perhaps courtesy and a common background could be strong enough foundations to begin building a life together.  Then, halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, her hopes for the future had been crushed.  By her eighteenth birthday a few months later Judith felt ancient, sapped of her strength, ashamed of her former naïveté.  It hadn’t taken her long to realize that she’d been lucky to escape; had they married, it could have been her carried off to the hospital.  As the years passed that conviction only grew.  But part of her—the part that hated how frail her grandmother had looked standing at the rail, that wished her failure hadn’t shamed her parents, that knew a horse-faced girl could not hope for romance—regretted not being able to marry him.  Part of her despised herself for being so unpleasant that one would prefer a lifetime in prison to a lifetime with her.

Not long after she turned 18 Mr. Till escorted her outside and told her that as her name was on the business then she ought to contribute to it; that it was her choice how, but they all had to pull together to move forward.  Though his tone allowed no dissent, his eyes were sympathetic, shadowed by a sorrow greater than her situation deserved, and she wondered what he’d left in Virginia when he came to the city.  While on occasion she speculated she never did ask, only listened intently as he taught her all he could—though sadly, he would sigh, the Southern manners that charmed matrons could not be transmitted to Yankees.  With his help, and Mother’s and Papa’s, the bitter sprout was kept in check.  It did not flourish, did not seek to choke her; but little else was allowed to grow within her, either.  So an already practical and realistic girl became an utterly dull young woman who cared more for her work than for her social life, whose heart was guarded and therefore safe.


	97. Bets (6 May 1905)

“It’ll be soon.” 

“Maybe,” he allowed, shaking his head, “but I don’t think so.”

“Oh?  And why not?  Because you want me to lose?” 

“No, because I know Skittery.  He gets…funny about things sometimes.”  A pained look crossed Calvin’s face, a grimace that made Pauline sober for a moment.  She lay her cheek against his arm in a silent show of support.  She was lucky that Calvin was so steady and even-tempered—not that she didn’t (usually) like Roman, but she did not possess the saint-like patience and strength that Hana did. 

After a few breaths of quiet she raised her head to look at him.  He still squinted a little, despite her lace-covered parasol propped up above them, as he watched a group of children flee their nannies.  What if, one day, she had a little boy, with strawberry blonde hair?  What if she sat next to her husband in a park and watched not strangers’ children but their own at play?  She nibbled at her lower lip, trying not to let her imagination run away from her.

“But you didn’t hear what he said at the studio.  He’s so in love with her, Calvin!  And her face when he said it—I don’t know how they can stand to wait.”  Pauline shook her head. 

“You know it’s not just about love, Paulie.”  She steeled herself against a shiver when he said the word, especially when he followed it up with her favorite nickname.  “They’d be married already if that was all there was to it.”

“I know.”  She groaned.  In front of a handsome young man, she made a most unattractive noise.  And he didn’t appear to be revolted by it.  That flew in the face of everything she’d heard about proper deportment in front of gentlemen callers; she filed away the revelation to ponder more later on.  “Some days I want to slap some sense into him.”

“Sure, that’d help,” he snorted.  “Then you’d really lose.  I say he proposes in the fall.  October, maybe.” 

“It has to be before then.  The end of August at the latest.”

“And the loser makes the winner a home-cooked meal?” he reiterated.

Pauline nodded.  “You must be feeling confident, if you’re agreeing to those terms.”

“Oh, I am.”  He looked terribly smug.

“But what if we’re both wrong?  I suppose we should consider that possibility, especially if Roman’s as stubborn as you say.”  

Calvin considered for a moment, head cocked away from her.  “Then I guess we take each other out for a nice picnic,” he said at last, turning to her with a smile that made her forget all about her friends.  Losing this bet would be no hardship if it led to the two of them on a blanket in the park, sharing a meal. 

“Deal.”  They shook on it; then he exchanged her right hand for the left and twined their fingers together.  “You have to admit that Roman will be getting the better end of that bargain.  Hana will make a wonderful wife.”  A beat passed and then, somewhat cautiously, she added, “Better than I will.”

“I guess that depends on what you think makes a good wife.”  His tone was casual.  “Sure, she’ll keep the house spotless an’ cook good meals.  But I wouldn’t want to marry her.”

Though that seemed obvious, she still felt a thrill of victory.  With a breathy chuckle she said, “Roman would have something to say about it if you did.”

“Yeah, with his fists.”  He winced at the thought.  “What I mean is that there’s a difference between somebody bein’ a good housekeeper, or a good provider, and a good husband or wife.  Say for some reason Hana an’ me got married.  She’d still take care o’ things in the house, an’ I’d still work hard at the store.  But that’s not all there is to havin’ a good marriage.”  His hand tightened around hers.  “It’s just…chores if there’s no love.”

The light filtering through the parasol softened Calvin’s features as he looked at her—as if his expression weren’t already angelic enough, like some seraph in a painting.  His voice was earnest and low.  “You’ll make someone a really great wife one day.  Somebody really lucky."  

There was no dismissal in it; on the contrary there was hope in the light in his eyes, in the warmth of his hand.  She touched his cheek, then leaned in to kiss him.  He’d said someone would be lucky to marry her; but she knew she would be the lucky one if it were him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: HOW DOES A FELLA JOIN THIS BETTIN’ POOL?! I wanna see Snoddy cook somethin’!


	98. Proofs (9 May 1905)

_To Mr. Jacobs:_

_Dear David,_  

_David—_

She dropped her pen with a huff.  All the note needed to communicate was that the proofs of the farm photographs were ready, and that she could bring them to the Sun or he could come to the studio to see them.  Simple enough, if only she could begin it.  A man wouldn’t have this problem.  A man would use “Jacobs” in the same self-assured way David called his mentor by his surname.  She, on the other hand, had to weigh proper etiquette against the somewhat tenuous collegiality they’d established.

_David,  
The proofs are ready.  Will you come here to see them, or shall I bring them to you?_

Straight to the point, if a little dry.  There was something more she wanted to add, which was  _I hope you’re as excited about your article as I am about the photos.  I hope when you reread what you’ve written you feel sparks shooting up your spine, and have to restrain the urge to grab the nearest person and force them to look at what you’ve done.  I hope that is how you feel when you see these pictures._

What she wrote was  _I hope the writing is going well_ , and signed it with her first name.

* * *

Sitting at the front desk was by far her least favorite task at the studio.  It meant giving directions to people who popped in, explaining that no, they didn’t sell  _that_ kind of picture and no, they didn’t take  _that_  kind of picture, either; it meant answering the telephone and trying to decipher the messages of callers who spoke far too softly or far too loudly, and endless repetitions of the request to spell that name, please.  On this slow afternoon she was trying to puzzle her way through an article about the Lumière brothers that Papa had found; it was something of a challenge, as it was written in French.

“You’re a genius,” David announced, striding into the studio.

“Wh—well, hello to you, too.”  She smoothed out the journal his abrupt entrance had made her drop, hoping her cheeks weren’t red.

“Hey.  Seriously, those portraits you did, of Les an’ our ma?”  He planted his fists on the reception desk and leaned forward; she tipped her chair back to meet his eyes.  “They’re great.”

“Technically Les took the one of your mother,” she demurred.  It wasn’t modesty, just the truth.

“Maybe so, but it was your idea.  You should’ve seen her, Judith, she was still speechless by the time I got home.  My mother, speechless, if you can believe it.”  He shook his head, smiling.  “An’ the subtlety in Les’ picture, the symbolism.”

That brought a laugh to her lips, a response that felt safer than basking in the praise, as she’d been tempted to.  “It was just a hat and an old newspaper on a stool.  It isn’t exactly high art, David.”

“Says who?” he challenged.

“I’m sure you could find someone at the Metropolitan Museum of Art who’d agree with me.”

“I’m sure.”  More subdued now he straightened up and said, “You did more than you had to for them, an’ I’m grateful.”

The sincerity and warmth in his smile were too much, and she dropped her gaze.  “It was my pleasure,” she murmured, more to the desk than to him.  Then she cleared her throat and stood, chair squeaking at her abrupt rise.  “Sit here while I get the proofs,” she ordered, and marched away before seeing if he’d complied.  By the time she returned, folder in hands that no longer trembled, he was indeed seated behind the desk, bent over the magazine she’d left open.

“You read French?”  He sounded impressed.

Judith snorted.  “You overestimate me.  I thought I’d be able to work some of it out, since it’s a bit similar to Portuguese, but it’s proving difficult.“

David leaned back to look at her as she pulled another chair over.  “Are you fluent?  Jack likes to think he speaks Spanish, and one o’ the other fellas actually did, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Portuguese.”

“I’m not even fluent by New York’s standards, let alone Portugal’s.”  She sat down next to him, maintaining a proper professional distance.  “Take this.”  She traced a line of text:  _Les couleurs sont recomposées à partir de la juxtaposition de cette multitude de points colorés qui donnent un charme pictural à ces photographies_.  “Of course I can understand several words, like  _couleurs_  and  _photographies_ , but through English, not Portuguese.  It’s hard going, especially when I’d like to know what the article says.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.  “A friend o’ mine speaks Slovak, and you’d think it’d be closer to Polish, since they’re right by each other.  We can understand some things when she’s speaking Slovak and I’m speaking Polish, but not everything.”

“Did you learn Polish from your parents?”

He nodded.  “My mother.  And the rest of her family; I went an’ taught English over there for a year or so.”  A forefinger tapped the word  _couleur_  on the page.  “Still lookin’ for your rainbow, huh?”

Judith knew that her cheeks flushed then.  It sounded silly when he put it that way.  “Yes,” she said stiffly.  “The Lumière brothers have discovered a process for creating color prints, the Autochrome, but it isn’t available for general use yet.”  The day it arrived in New York she’d have it; she was already saving so that whatever the cost she could afford the equipment.  They would put a sign in the window, advertising  _FULL COLOR PORTRAITS NOW AVAILABLE!_   She had no illusions that Till & Cook would be the first in the city to offer Autochrome prints, and they certainly wouldn’t be cheap, but it would be worth it.  It had to be.

“That must be frustrating,” David went on, “knowin’ that somebody’s figured it out but you can’t use it yet.”  He made a face, brows pulled together and mouth scrunched up, echoing her distaste at the wait; but then his grimace cleared and an encouraging smile took its place.  With a nod toward their gallery he said, “I’ll be the first one to buy one of your color landscapes.”

“If you’re able to afford it, on a junior reporter’s salary,” she replied, an eyebrow arched.

“Ha!  No discounts for your partner?”  His smile twisted into a playful smirk.

“This is a business, Mr. Jacobs,” she retorted, in haughtiness that she hoped was discernible as affected.  “Do you want us to go under?”

“No, you’re right.  It wouldn’t be sensible to just give photos away.”  The glance he sent her way was pointed, his tone dry.  Of course he knew about the picture of his mother; she assumed that by now he knew about the ones she’d sent to Valhalla, too.  She met his gaze levelly, saw the spark of humor in his eyes, the minute twitch of his lips.  Her head dipped the tiniest bit in the most agreement she could allow.  David returned the nod before breaking eye contact, turning his attention to the pile of proofs on the desk.  They were the reason he was there, after all.

She opened the folder.  The photographs were arranged in the order in which she’d taken them, starting with the one from the back of the cart on the way to the farm and ending with the family portrait.  Though it hurt her pride she’d left in the ones that hadn’t turned out as well as she’d hoped, those that were blurred or poorly exposed.  Several had disappointed her; but there were enough that would work to soothe her pride.  He looked through the stack once, spending more time studying some than others; his second round was slower still.  When it was finished he looked up.

“They’re just as good as I hoped,” he said over the rushing in her ears.  “Better, really.  I wish we could run all of ’em.”

Her fists unclenched.  “That sounds a little ambitious.  More like a book than a feature.”

He agreed with a little hum, shuffling through the proofs again.  “One thing at a time.  We’ll tackle a book after this’s done.”  He spread out a selection of pictures: mostly of the students, some group shots and some individual portraits, with only a few pictures of the grounds and buildings.  “These’re the ones I think they’ll want to run.  Not that the others aren’t good,” he clarified, swiveling his head to address her; “but I can just hear my editor now, hollerin’ about ‘human interest’ and how people want to see other people in the paper, not just fields an’ trees.”

“I expected as much.  And I don’t think some of these would transfer well to newsprint, anyway.  Too much fine detail would be lost.”  The depth of the views would be flattened, the contrast of the shadows faded. 

“I bet you’re right.  Are there any others you think we should include?”

She glanced over the array.  “It’s hard to tell without knowing what your story will say.  The particulars, that is, not just the general thrust of it.”  To her satisfaction he looked chagrined at that, and mumbled that he was still working on it.  There was one photo that she liked and he hadn’t picked, of a pair of young boys; one was holding up a fat hen while the other collected eggs.  “This will appeal to your readers.  It plays to their parental instincts, and nostalgia for a simpler past.” 

He took the picture; then, peering closer at it, he began to smile.  “I think that’s Cordelia.”

She’d been under the impression that all of the students at the farm were male. “Who, the chicken?”

“Yeah.  Cordelia Muttonchop, Jack’s archnemesis.  You’re dead-on about the appeal—the kids are cute, and nonthreatening, which is somethin’ important to say about street kids—but with Cordelia in it, we’ve got to have this one.”

He added the picture to the pile of keepers; then, when she remained silent, looked up to see her staring at him.  “What?”

“You recognize the chicken.”

Now the color rose in his cheeks.  “It’s a distinctive chicken.”

“You know the chicken’s surname,” she prodded further.

His ears were steadily reddening.  “Jack complains about Cordelia a lot!  You know how he is.”  When she gave a tiny, wicked smile, he sighed and stood.  “Thank you for showing me these.  I’ll let you know when I’ve got a draft ready; then we can give it to Denton along with the pictures.”  Still smiling she nodded, and he walked around the desk.

On the other side he paused, hat squeezed in one hand.  “Um, Judith?”

“Yes?” she asked sweetly.

With a sigh he squared his shoulders.  “My mother would like to invite you over for dinner, to thank you for your generosity.”

The smile, so smug just seconds ago, fell away.  “Really?”  Aware that her brows were drawn together and her nose wrinkled she fought to smooth out her features.  “That’s very kind, but it isn’t necessary.”

“It was just an invitation,” he shot back.  “You certainly shouldn’t feel obligated to come.”

This—David’s frown, the tension that shot up his spine—was why written invitations were far superior to spoken ones.  “That isn’t…”  Judith took a breath and tried again, speaking carefully.  “I simply meant that I was happy to do it, and wasn’t expecting anything in return.”  When she saw that he’d relaxed, at least a little, she ventured a conciliatory smile.

“Okay.”  The answer was accompanied by a slow nod.  “But the offer stands.  My mother would love to feed you, and my father’s feelin’ a little left out, since you’ve met everybody else in the family but him.  You’d like him,” he added, causing her to wonder at his confidence in the statement; that wonder only increased when he said, “and he’ll definitely like you.”

“How are you so sure?”  

“I’m a reporter,” he said, one shoulder shrugging.  “Call it a hunch.”  The flush had all but faded, leaving the merest boyish tinge of pink in his cheeks.  “Can I tell my mother you’ll be there on Sunday?”

No excuse sprang to mind, and she wasn’t certain she would use it if it had.  “You can,” she said, and “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French text taken from ”Les Autochromes“ on the Institut Lumière site. It’s anachronistic, but I couldn’t find a contemporary article in French to use.
> 
> JACK: You think Mrs. Jacobs is gonna make chocolate cake when Judith comes over?!?!?!?!


	99. Cake (13 May 1905)

Today was the big day.  She let herself in the back door, slipped the apron over her head, and got to work.  The parlor was still and quiet, chilly after the spring night; she opened the drapes to let the sun warm the room.  She had already done all of the real labor the day before yesterday: scrubbed the floors and polished the furniture, beaten the rugs and washed the windows.  Now she swept and dusted and made sure that none of Miss Grace’s guests would see one speck of dirt during the tea.

Well before anyone was set to arrive Hana climbed the back stairs.  She’d work on the upstairs rooms while the party was going on below; no one would notice her there.  Still, she would finish the guest room first, in case any of the ladies needed to refresh herself there.

From the top of the stairs she caught a glimpse of Miss Grace leaving her room.  Hana looked hard, taking in all of the details she could to describe to Pauline later.  Her employer wore an apricot-colored dress, elegant but unfussy in cut, with a sheer gold overlay.  When Miss Grace paused at the top of the front stairs, where light from a high window flooded the hall, the material shimmered, its glow sublime.  If only her expression was as radiant as her dress.  From what little Hana had overheard, Miss Grace hadn’t been looking forward to the afternoon tea, which would be attended by her mother-in-law, neighbors, and other members of their social circle.  It was the first event she’d hosted alone since returning from her honeymoon, and from the amount of preparation that had gone into it, the drafts of rejected menus Hana had thrown out and the mountains of invitations she’d watched Miss Grace address, this was an important afternoon for her boss.  As Miss Grace pasted on a smile before descending the stairs, Hana hoped it went well.  

She couldn’t say she pitied her employer, not really.  Why should she?  Miss Grace had a decent husband and a more than comfortable home; she had plenty of friends, ample free time to spend as she wished, and the money to make nearly any pastime possible. Miss Grace had never had to work to keep her family clothed and fed, and likely never would.  Hana wasn’t even sure she could, what with the way the Misses Vande Kerk talked about even the simplest of tasks being “below my station, dear”; though they surely exaggerated, Hana still had the sense that  a woman of their class who worked outside the home was an aberration.  For that she could almost pity the other woman.  Where did a woman of leisure find her sense of purpose?

All the same, it seemed that this afternoon was a duty for Miss Grace, and one whose success depended on her being able to get through it with good humor and grace.  Just because she was dressed well did not mean she wasn’t working at something.  Still, Hana knew that she would put on a fancy dress and serve tea every day for the rest of her life if it meant Mama and Tatko got to live in a place like this. 

Up here the house was quiet.  Work was often the only time she had to herself, the only time when she couldn’t hear or see or smell another human being.  Here in the Hayes’ mansion she could sing without worrying about someone else hearing; she could think without being interrupted by a request for help from her mother or a knock at the door from a neighbor.  Being alone, really alone, was a luxury only the rich could afford—at least in the city.  Maybe, Hana thought, dusting a guest bedroom, you could be alone if you lived out west somewhere.  She remembered the few stretches of open country blinking by the train window on her way to Pittsburgh, the lakes of trees.  Maybe you had to go farther than that for solitude.  America was so big, and she’d seen so little of it; maybe there were places still wild, still unsettled.  Places where you could go to find some quiet, to be alone without having to sweep the floor in exchange.

The twins worked in a bookstore—the smile on Roman’s face as he read that had been wonderful to see, a mixture of pride and envy—but Miles was a farmer.  That meant that Iowa had enough open land to grow things.  Other than that, though, she had little idea what it looked like there.  Was it like Valhalla, gently rolling, the river nearby?  Was it tucked into a valley the way Revúca was, with hills always looming over your shoulder?  Or did it look like a place unlike any she’d seen before?  Mr. Roth’s globe only named countries and their capital; on it America was an empty expanse, delicate blue lines marking major rivers. Manhattan was dwarfed by the rest of the nation.  Looking at the globe, at the country wider than an ocean, she’d been awed by Jack’s feat of finding the rest of the Kučeras.  Máša might tell her what Iowa was like if she asked—once Máša knew who she was.

Laughter wafted up the stairs as she headed for Miss Grace’s powder room.  What Pauline wouldn’t give to be in the parlor downstairs!  The sight of the dresses would occupy her thoughts for weeks, while the accessories would send her into raptures.  And with good reason: no one downstairs would be wearing paste gems or gold plate.  Curiosity getting the better of her Hana crept to the top of the stairs, daring a peek below while trying to remain out of sight; it was both a relief and a disappointment that there was no one below to see, and to see her.  She backed away, shoes soundless on the thick carpet, and pushed open the door to Miss Grace’s powder room. 

At times she had entertained the thought that the Hayes home had a few too many rooms.  After all, you could only be in one room at a time.  She and Mama and Tatko got by with two rooms—three, if you felt generous enough to count the kitchen and sitting room as separate—just like thousands of other families across the city.  Did anyone really need a special room for eating breakfast?  Or one just for the plants?  Those were the kind of extravagances that the wealthy took for granted.  But Hana was willing to admit that she would love having a washroom of her very own.  Imagine the convenience of it!  No more bundling up and searching for slippers in the middle of the night, no more waiting on line.  Pauline would laugh; doubtless she’d claim to want an entire room for her clothes.  Hana’s dreams were modest and, she thought, much more practical than her friend’s: a washroom that wasn’t shared with everyone else on their floor; a kitchen separate from the cozy little sitting room; one bedroom for her and her husband ( _Roman_ , her heart sang, heedless of her mind’s protests), and another for the children.  Only five rooms; but it might as well have been five dozen, for how out of reach it often seemed.

At a quarter past four she slipped down the back stairs.  The house seemed quiet again as she hung up her apron.  She ducked into the kitchen, intending to ask the cook if the guests had all gone yet; instead she saw Miss Grace, setting down a plate speckled with crumbs.  She glanced up at the sound of the door. 

“Oh, Hana.”  Miss Grace’s smile was tired, but genuine.  “It looked wonderful.  Thank you.”

Never quite sure how to respond to such thanks, Hana made a little humming noise.  Then, to cover her befuddlement, she asked shyly, “Was it— Did you have a nice time?”

She nodded.  “It went well, I think.  The ladies were able to satisfy their curiosity about the house, and how Thomas and I are getting along…”  She trailed off, absently smoothing a hand down her midsection, and Hana supposed that she’d had to endure some not-so-subtle questioning and plenty of scrutiny of her figure.  The latter was silly; if she was expecting, she’d hardly be showing so soon after the wedding.  Still, next time she came Hana would pay extra attention to the little room across from the master bedroom.  It never hurt to be prepared.  Her smile now wry Miss Grace said, “I think some of them were hoping I’d be miserable, or at least look terrible, if only so they’d have something to gossip about later.”

“You don’t look terrible,” Hana reassured her, though of course Miss Grace knew that already.  

“Do you know, I think that’s the most sincere compliment I’ve received all afternoon,” Miss Grace chuckled.  “Thank you, Hana, it’s kind of you to say so.”  On the counter next to her were several white boxes from the bakery; now she turned away and picked one up, offering it to Hana.  “Would you please take these?  We can’t possibly eat all of them.”  The box hadn’t even been opened, still tied with the bakery’s red-and-white string; the faint scent of vanilla and sugar surrounded it.  Hana accepted the box with a murmur of thanks; then the cook bustled back in, commanding Miss Grace’s attention, and Hana was able to say her goodbyes and slip away.

The box tempted her the entire trolley ride home.  She cradled it in her lap, her arms wrapped loosely around it, both to protect it from the jostling of her fellow passengers and to hold close the feeling of being appreciated.  It was warm enough now to sit on the stoop, so she arranged her skirt beneath her and leaned into the sun-warmed iron railing.  Neighbors passed, calling hellos; a group of girls played hopscotch on the sidewalk.  By the time Pauline arrived home she was feeling drowsy, had even closed her eyes against the fading daylight.  Pauline dropped down next to her with a flounce of skirts and a sigh. 

“Miss Grace had an afternoon tea today,” she began, fingers working at the knot in the string.  “The ladies had lemonade, and iced tea with mint, and little sandwiches—”

“With the crusts cut off?”  They shared a smile as Hana nodded.

She unwound the string and slid it in her pocket.  With the lid flipped back they were able to peer in at the cakes within: frosted cubes that Pauline called petits fours, cream puffs, tiny meringues.  Pauline took a petit four topped with a lavender sugar rose; Hana let a meringue melt on her tongue before she went on.  Or tried to; any hope she had of being able to relay her thoughts about that day dissolved like the sugar.  “I wish you were there,” she said at last.  Pauline deserved to be there, a bright and charming guest. She deserved to be admired, even envied, for her wit, her style, her dashing sweetheart.

Pauline linked her arm with Hana’s—though not before selecting another sweet. “For now,” she said, “I’m happy here,” and Hana couldn’t find it in her to disagree.


	100. Meta: OTPs

I saw [this post](https://the-moon-dust-writings.tumblr.com/post/159730266693/otp-questions) of OTP questions this morning and knew I had to answer them.  I think the reason will become obvious fairly quickly.  Hana and Skittery’s answers are first, followed by Pauline and Snoddy’s.

**1\. Who plans a romantic getaway?**  
Skittery.  (Chaperones aren’t romantic, so this will have to be after they’re married.)  It would have to be modest, though, because even though he wants to give Hana the world, they don’t have much to spare.  He’d probably plan a dinner out somewhere nice and make arrangements for Tumbler to stay the night with the Kollárs so that he and Hana could be alone without having to worry.  Maybe if they’re really lucky Miss Grace offers them the use of a family vacation home up the Hudson somewhere for a special occasion.

On  their first wedding anniversary Pauline and Snoddy are both excited to give the other their gift.  Pauline presents Snoddy with a pair of tickets on a steamer up the river to Saratoga Springs, where they’ll stay at the spa for the weekend. When his response isn’t as thrilled as she’d expected he hands her his gift: a certificate for a stay in a hotel at one of the beach towns in Long Island–the same weekend as the one she’d booked.  They have to flip a coin to decide which trip they’ll go on; Saratoga wins.  After that they have to alternate holidays to make sure nothing of the sort happens again.

**2\. Who asks the other’s father/father figure to marry their son/daughter?**  
Skitts is less worried about asking Mr. Kollár, who he knows likes him, than Mrs. Kollár.  But as long as he’s gotten a job that pays better than waiting tables does, she won’t say no–she can’t, because by this point it’s obvious that if she really opposes the marriage, she runs the risk of losing her daughter.  So maybe he’s not the son-in-law she had in mind; he makes Hanka so happy and treats her so well, and Mama can’t help but like him for that.

The Hermanns love Calvin, so him asking for permission would be a walk in the park.  He’d probably be prepared to plead his case nonetheless, but Mr. Hermann would just give him the okay before he even started his speech.  They’d be proud to have such a “fine young man” for a son-in-law, and wouldn’t worry about Pauline’s future for a second.

(As a side note, I can almost imagine Pauline and Snoddy getting married before Hana and Skitts.  Yes, Pauline is younger, and they haven’t been together as long as the other two, but they’re also both working in higher paying, more upwardly mobile jobs, and that would give them an advantage.  Even if that were the case, though, Pauline would be sensitive to the fact that Hana had to wait, and she might want to postpone the wedding to save her friend’s feelings.)

**3\. Who buys a goat because the goat loves them?**  
HANA.  Her name is Kvetina (flower).  She and Skittery have an uneasy truce.  Hana’s attempt to make [bryndza](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.cheese.com%2Fbryndza%2F&t=MzZiZjQ2NGZkYzIzOThhMWJmNmZhMWEyN2MzMDY2YjgzNTIzYjNmNixQWXlxMDJXbw%3D%3D&b=t%3A2coJC7UwbNQ15T5NlvAFmw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fjackcowboyhero.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174194849182%2Fpandolfo-malatesta-i-saw-this-post-of-otp&m=1) from Kvetina’s milk is not successful. 

Neither Pauline nor Snoddy know the first thing about goats, and have no desire to learn.  Ranger is the only animal they need (though I can see Snoddy getting Paulie a kitten at some point).

**4\. Who has a vast knowledge about random facts?**  
Skitts reads a lot, and more widely than Hana, so his general knowledge base is pretty broad.  But she’s picked up a lot of etiquette and decorum-related knowledge from work, and can surprise him knowing what the weird forks are for.

Pauline and Snoddy are probably pretty well matched, though Snoddy might have a slight edge from what he learned on the streets.

**5\. Who likes to clean?**  
Hana doesn’t necessarily  _like_  to while she’s at home, but she’s certainly the more efficient of the two.  In his defense, Skittery has always had so little in the way of personal effects that he’s been neat by default–you don’t want to leave things out when they might get “borrowed” and never returned–so it’s not as if he’s a slob.

Snoddy probably enjoys it more than Pauline; he seems like the type to be an ace at ironing.  She keeps her things mostly in order, but has a tendency to let her accessories get a little untidy.

**6\. Who sleeps on which side of the bed?**  
Since he’s left-handed Skitts sleeps on the left, the better to fling out his arm and knock the alarm clock over.  That leaves Hana on the right (coincidentally leaving her dominant hand on the outside of the bed, too).  

To be honest, Pauline probably sleeps in the middle of the bed, with Snoddy on the right edge…unless they’re spooning, which has the double advantage of giving him more room and letting him hold her close.

**7\. How do they celebrate Valentine’s Day?**  
Skittery and Hana are low-key; Hana’s birthday is the following week and they celebrate that with more enthusiasm.  They get each other cards and write things in them so sweet they’ll make your teeth ache, and go to Mrs. Procházka’s for dessert, and share lots and lots of kisses.

[The two romantics](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/170888697110/pauline-hermann-was-at-a-loss-valentines-day) give each other gifts–Pauline might make a dessert or special meal for Snoddy, and he’ll at least bring her flowers and maybe some little trinket that reminded him of her–in addition to their cards, which are possibly more eloquent than Hana and Skittery’s, but no less heartfelt.

**8\. Do they like to go on double dates?**  
Sometimes, with each other.  I think the girls probably propose double dates more often than the boys would.  Of the four Skittery is the least enthusiastic about them, but he doesn’t hate them (as long as Shiv isn’t being a pain).

**9\. Who likes to stay up really late?**  
Skittery’s more used to staying up late with the boys.  The Kollárs aren’t big party animals or anything, so Hana doesn’t generally stay up that long.  Once they’re married, though, she doesn’t mind staying up with him as he reads, and he doesn’t mind going to bed a little earlier.  (Does he ever mind getting into bed with her?)

Pauline might be a bit more of a night owl than Snoddy, but not by much.

**10\. Who would be lovey-dovey drunk?**  
Hana.  If she did overindulge, she’d get very cuddly; but no one knows this, because she’s never had that much to drink.

Pauline probably gets a little belligerent–not physically aggressive, but louder and more prone to expressing her opinions than usual.

**11\. Who do they ask to be their bridesmaid(s)/ best man/men?**  
Hana and Pauline are each other’s maid/matron of honor.  Pauline’s dreams of a grand wedding are, in practice, somewhat limited by budget, but also by the fact that she lost so many friends who might otherwise have stood up for her on the  _General Slocum_.  She’d invite some of the girls from the shop, but isn’t close enough to any of them to have them take that big a role.  Likewise, Hana doesn’t feel close enough to her sister-in-law to ask her to be a bridesmaid, if Jozef, Zuzana, and Thomas were even able to make it to the wedding.  (Don’t tell Pauline, but Hana would actually be fine with no bridesmaids at all; Pauline would be a little personally offended if she knew that, but would feel more that it was some kind of breach of etiquette.)

Snoddy might ask Pie Eater or Swifty, but I think he might feel like he ought to ask Skittery, since he did introduce Snoddy and Pauline.  Skittery would ask Tumbler.  I’m sure he’d invite his siblings from Iowa; I’m less sure they’d be able to make it for the wedding, though Máša would do anything she could to get them there.  Skitts might very well beat himself up over whether or not he should ask Miles and/or Joe to stand up with him.

**12\. What would their baby room look like?**  
With the places they’re likely to live, their babies won’t be getting their own rooms.  They’ll get cradles by the beds.  Pauline’s baby will have stylish little blankets and gowns, made from castoffs from the shop, and Hana’s will have things that are less fancy but good and durable.

**13\. Who can’t stop laughing at their own jokes?**  
Skittery thinks he’s pretty funny sometimes.

**14\. Who distracts the driver by being a bit too provocative in the car?**  
New Yorkers don’t drive.

(Hana might have learned the basics before her family moved, though she hasn’t driven since then, and has little desire to drive in the city.  Snoddy is probably the only one of them with an actual license, “just in case”; none of them would incite any shenanigans while someone else was driving, because none of them has a death wish.  Inciting shenanigans while in the back of a taxi, on the other hand…)

**15\. Who is the competitive one?**  
Skittery more so than Hana, though she’s so non-confrontational and uninterested in competing that that isn’t saying much; Pauline more so than Snoddy.


	101. Dinner with the Jacobs Family (20 May 1905)

_The human soul is difficult to interfere with.  You hesitate how far you should go_.  
Charles Loring Brace

 

Though it had been some time since she’d had dinner at someone else’s home, Judith remembered not to arrive empty-handed.  Of course, that had its potential pitfalls as well; choosing the wrong item to bring could mean there were two desserts, or, less happily, could suggest that the guest lacked confidence in the host’s cooking skills.  Wine was a safe bet—or at least she hoped it was.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Jacobs said as she handed over the bottle.  Her eyes widened as she read the label.  Perhaps it wasn’t the safe bet Judith had hoped it was.  Without another word Mrs. Jacobs handed the bottle to her husband; his eyebrows rose. 

“This looks very nice, Miss Cook,” he said, sounding impressed.  “Thank you.”

“Please, call me Judith.  And it’s the least I could do for you welcoming me into your home.”

They’d just been introduced, there in the Jacobs’ sitting room.  His children had gotten their dark hair from Mayer Jacobs, though his was graying at the temples.  She was bemused at the realization that David had been right: she did like his father, almost immediately, though exactly why she wasn’t yet sure.  The idea—particularly the part where David apparently knew her well enough to know who she’d like—was as frightening as it was comforting.  She did her best to push away the fear. 

Standing at his father’s elbow, David asked, “Is that port?”  Her expression must have betrayed her surprised because he went on, “What?  Isn’t that one of Portugal’s main exports?  Port wine, cork, and explorers?”  One corner of his mouth curled up.  Without her telling it to, her mouth smiled back.

“No.”  She shook her head.  “That is, yes, you’re right about the exports, but no, that isn’t port.  It’s just a table wine.  But it is kosher.”

Mrs. Jacobs looked from their guest to her son and back again, offering an approving smile.  “How thoughtful.  Open it, will you please, Mayer?”  They both headed into the kitchen just feet away, Mr. Jacobs hunting through a drawer and Mrs. Jacobs attending to something on the stove.  

“Open what?” Les asked, closing the door behind him.  “Hi, Miss Cook.”  Once he’d hung up his jacket, thumping David’s stomach as he passed, he headed into the kitchen to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“Judith brought wine to have with dinner,” David answered.

“Can I have some?”

Perhaps it was easier to deny his eager young face when one saw it every day.  After one glance at him she would have said yes; David said no immediately, and Mrs. Jacobs took her time to consider it.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “It is a school night…”

“But it’s a special occasion,” he countered.  Judith hoped he wasn’t referring to her presence.

Eyes narrowed, Mrs. Jacobs regarded her son, who had assumed an innocent expression.  It didn’t take long for her to relent.  “One glass,” she said, a finger raised, “a small one.”  Les broke out in a grin, one he shared with Judith as he rejoined her near the dining table.

Mrs. Jacobs then resumed bustling about, putting the final touches on dinner.  “Les, show Judith where to sit,” she called, “and David, take this.”  Les pulled out her chair in a textbook display of etiquette as David set a basket of rolls on the table; Mr. Jacobs brought the bottle of wine and glasses, four normal sized ones for the adults and a much smaller tumbler for Les.  While he poured the wine his wife carried a platter bearing a roast to the table.  When the family had taken their seats Judith found herself between Mr. Jacobs and Les, with David roughly opposite her and Mrs. Jacobs on her younger son’s other side.

After Mr. Jacobs blessed the meal, he added the  _HaTov v’HaMeitiv_.  Judith murmured “Amen” along with the rest, though she felt stunned; she was sure it showed on her face, because Mr. Jacobs gave a shrug, a smile playing about his lips.  “It is a special occasion, after all,” he said mildly.

As Mrs. Jacobs helped her to a slice of beef  he went on, “Your portraits of the family are wonderful, Judith.  Thank you.”

“You’ll have to come by some day.”  It would be sweet to capture him and his wife together; the comfortable ambiance in their home and their happy, healthy children spoke to the stability of their relationship.  She looked around the table.  “Or better yet, the next time Sarah and Jack come down, all of you come to the studio, and we’ll get a photo of the whole family.”  She could see it now: Danny wriggling, Les grinning at something Jack said, Mrs. Jacobs fussing with David’s collar.  She’d seat Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs in the middle, with the children ranged behind them.  Getting them all to pay attention would take some effort—she’d rarely photographed so many people at once, and even then Jack would protest that it couldn’t be a complete family portrait if Nell weren’t there—but she believed that they’d be satisfied with the result.

Even now Mrs. Jacobs was beaming.  “What an excellent idea.”

“David says your landscapes are—what was it?—ethereal?”  He raised his eyebrows at David who nodded, mouth full and apparently unconcerned that this praise was being repeated to its object.  “You must have taken some good ones of the farm.  What did you think of it?”

Chewing gave her time to consider.  Maybe she was overthinking, but if he’d been there, then Mr. Jacobs knew what it looked like; she wanted to offer something deeper than just observations on aesthetics.  “It’s idyllic, surely,” she said, “especially when you approach in a farm wagon.  But I find myself looking at the city differently now.  Not so much the place, really, but the people—the young workers—”  She nodded at Les.  “—and the older ones, too.  Wondering if they’d ever been given a chance like this one.”

David’s fork clattered against his plate.  “Yes!” he cried, vindicated.  “An’ since we can’t take everyone in the city up to the farm, we’ll show ’em what it’s like with your pictures and my story.  They’ll see that there can be opportunities for the street kids an’ the workers.”  His face glowed.

“What happens after the children leave the farm?” she asked.  “They go west, but where?  To do what?”

“Depends,” Les answered.  “Lots of ’em end up in Kansas, Nebraska, places like that.  They do farmin’ stuff, like at the Brace Farm.”

“But not all of them end up at farms.  Some are taken on to work in shops or in homes, and some are treated like true members of the family.”

“The lucky ones,” Mr. Jacobs acknowledged.  “Though according to Jack, CAS agents are supposed to check up on the children and the families they’re placed with.  But there are no guarantees that the children will be cared for.”

“And there are even fewer guarantees they’ll be cared for if they stay here,” David retorted.  “Isn’t it worth it to take that chance?  To at least  _try_  to improve their lives?”

Judith had the feeling Mr. Jacobs was playing devil’s advocate when he answered, “Maybe.  But would  _you_  like having that decision made for you?”  His lips twitched beneath his mustache at David’s glower.  Les just laughed outright at the idea.

She wiped her mouth delicately on the embroidered napkin before speaking.  “Surely you can agree that children that young can’t know what’s in their best interests,” she said to Mr. Jacobs.  They both ignored Les’ indignant squawk of protest.  “The summer I’d just turned ten, all I wanted was to wear the same dress every day and eat Peach Melba for every meal.  I thought I was grown-up enough to know what was best for me.  But I wasn’t thinking about the future then, only about what satisfied me at that moment.”  How she wished she could go back to those days, careless of what lay ahead.  “They may not agree with it or appreciate it, but children need guidance.”

The anecdote didn’t have quite the effect she’d anticipated.  Instead of continuing the debate, she seemed to have brought it to a standstill, with every other face around the table wearing a smile that she had no choice but to characterize as affectionate.  Indulgent, at the least.  It possibly should have felt patronizing; instead it just felt…nice.  Warm, and accepting.  Yet still a little embarrassing: her cheeks heated up, especially as she locked eyes with David.

“Peach Melba?” he asked, eyes sparkling, laughter in his voice.

“Desserts named after opera singers are very sophisticated,” she answered primly.  When everyone laughed she knew it was with her, and kindly meant, so she smiled along with them. 

Mrs. Jacobs tried to tempt her when seconds; maybe she should have, because not eating meant she had nothing to help her avoid answering more questions.  “David said you had family from Portugal?” the older woman prompted.

“Only distant relatives,” she said, shaking her head, “my grandmother’s sister and her family.  I went with her to visit them some years ago.”

“What was it like?”

She sipped her wine, both to buy time and to steady herself.  There was no need to mention Heitor, no way they’d realize that there had been an engagement.  “Porto, where my great-aunt lives, is on a river,” she started slowly, recalling the city.  “Or, rather, above it; the buildings climb up a hill from the riverbank, stacked up like children’s blocks—and just as brightly colored, too, especially when the sun is shining.  Parts of the medieval city wall are still standing, with orange trees growing nearby…”  She felt a sudden and unexpected longing for the place, for the scent of fortified wine wafting through the streets of Vila Nova de Gaia across the river, for the sight of fishing boats docked at twilight, old men on the banks, gnarled fingers combing through their nets.  “And  _azulejos_  everywhere, whole buildings covered with them,” she added distantly, almost dreamily.  At Mrs. Jacobs’ blank expression she remembered herself, where she was and who she was with, and blinked hard to banish the foolish reverie.

With a short, self-deprecating laugh she explained, “I nearly forgot the word in English for a moment.”  Mrs. Jacobs’ sympathetic nod only made her feel worse for the half-truth.  “ _Azulejos_  are tiles, glazed ceramic ones, that are used for decoration.  They can be many colors, but the most common is—”

“Blue?” Les supplied.  He looked proud when she nodded, even after his father reminded him not to interrupt.  “It sounds like the Spanish word for blue; that’s how I guessed.  Is that your favorite color?”

Judith shook her head, keeping her attention on Les and away from David’s eyes.  “Even so, it’s one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen.  The train station in Porto is full of them, and several churches are blue and white outside because they’re covered in tile.”

“Do ya have pictures of ’em?”

“No.  I didn’t have my own camera then.”  She hadn’t had one until after she’d come home, empty-handed and needing something to fill her time.  “And it wouldn’t be quite as beautiful in black and white.”  The smirk that she expected David to wear at the mention of color was missing; instead he looked almost sad for her.

After a dessert of cake and coffee, and after her feeble offer to help clear up was kindly rebuffed, it seemed like the ideal time to leave.  “Thank you so much for inviting me,” she told Mrs. Jacobs, who received the thanks with maternal pride.  Then she turned her smile to Mr. Jacobs and Les.  “I had a lovely time.”

“We enjoyed having you.  You’re welcome back whenever you like.”  They all shook hands—all except David, who was pulling on his coat and cap, apparently planning to accompany her back to the trolley.  He opened the door for her and followed her down the stairs to the street, where it was just dark enough to be dangerous.

“When did you have time to go to the library and study up on Portugal?” she teased as they walked.

“Who needs a library?  The paper’s got a whole research department.  I went down there on a break and looked it up.  A guy’s got to learn whenever he can.”

Something about the way he said that, and something that his mother hadn’t mentioned, that had been absent from her praise, compelled her to ask, “You didn’t go to college, did you?”  He shook his head, expression hard to read in the shadows.  “Why not?”

“Why do you think?  We’ve lived in that tenement since before Les was born.  And sure, there are scholarships, but they wouldn’t’ve helped pay rent the way my workin’ did.”  He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching forward slightly.

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure if he saw or not, the way his gaze was fixed straight ahead.  It made perfect sense, of course.  “Do you regret not going?  I imagine you’d have done well.”

“I don’t know.  Before the strike it seemed important, ya know?  Like college would teach me how to change the world.  Turns out you don’t need much formal education to do that.”  He grinned, almost privately, still not looking at her.  For a split second she wished he would, wished she could share whatever joke was making him look like that.  “Then I went to Poland, an’ learned things there that I couldn’t’ve learned in some lecture hall.  And when I came back from Poland there was a job waiting for me at the  _Sun_.  There’s nothin’ journalism school could teach me that Denton hasn’t already.

“Anyway, what about you?” he demanded.  “You’re smart.”

When at last she answered, it was to say, “Things…didn’t go as planned.  Maybe I should have studied—art, at least, or business—but…”

The truth, once spoken, would diminish her in his eyes.  That she’d never looked far beyond the studio, had never wanted to be much else than what she now was, betrayed a damning lack of ambition.  She could not reveal her complacency to him.  “I’m a slow reader,” she finally said, as if that were any better to admit to a writer.  “Pictures always made more sense to me than words.”

He glanced at her then, out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.  They walked on, the silence between them thick, heavy, for nearly a block; then she asked, “The strike you mentioned—that was the newsboys’ strike, in ’99?  How old were you then?”

Head tipped up he let out a puff of laughter.  “Sixteen.  It sounds impossible now.”

“Sixteen,” she repeated, and then her stride lengthened, her steps sped up.  “Sixteen and fighting against the most powerful men in the city, and at 17 I spent the summer on  _holiday_.”  The abrupt anger was mostly at herself, for her failures, and for believing that anyone would accept her despite them; but she was angry at him, too, for making her think they weren’t so different.  Her head whipped around as he hurried after her, taking in the confused expression beneath the cap and curls.  Had his parents known when they’d named him for the shepherd-king that he too would face down giants?

“Judith.  Hey!”  He caught her arm, tugging at it until she stopped.  “What’s wrong?”  Once he had her attention his hand fell away.

“I’m not like you,” she said, all of the anger draining away through the crack in her voice.  He flinched away from the words.  She straightened her spine, and when she continued her voice was quiet and controlled, not revealing her shame.  “I don’t have ambitions, and plans to save the world.  I’m not good, like you.”

He shook his head.  “Nobody’s trying for sainthood here.  It’s not about being good—which I’m not especially, for the record; it’s about trying to do right, to speak up for other people here and now, where it makes a difference.  And you  _can_  do that.  You are, already.”

The truth climbed up her throat, almost desperate to be let out.  It would help, part of her thought, if he knew the whole story, could understand why she was so distant and difficult.  But that reasonable voice in her head was drowned in fear that their fragile friendship could not survive the truth.  Not now; perhaps not ever. 

A muscle twitched in his jaw.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, or what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” she said quietly.  “It’s not you.”

He went on as if he hadn’t heard.  “But I’m glad you came over tonight.  My family likes you.  It seemed like you like them, too.  I hope so.”  His voice took on a searching note, nearly plaintive; she swallowed the lump in her throat as she nodded.  “I want to keep workin’ with you.  You’re excellent at what you do, and I like spending time with you.”  David cocked his head, regarding her through slightly narrowed eyes; his voice lowered.  “I guess I’m still tryin’ to figure you out.”

She guessed she was trying to do the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure if it was Jewish custom to say a prayer before eating, in part because it’s not something that I’ve ever seen depicted in media. After thinking about it for a half a second I realize how dumb of me that was. My research indicated that there are separate blessings for each part of a meal: the bread, fruits, dairy, etc. But I also found a prayer of blessing called Shehecheyanu. This is prayed at a “novel or happy event” (Blu Greenberg, How to Run a Traditional Jewish Household), “thanking Hashem for something that has happend [sic] to one and makes one happy” (Rabbi Binyamin Bamberger, yeshiva.co). HOWEVER, Shehecheyanu is only said when a single person is made happy. If multiple people benefit from the good thing, the prayer used is HaTov v’HaMeitiv (also transliterated as Hatov Vehametiv). In English, this prayer is  
> “Blessed are You, God, our Lord,  
> King of the Universe,  
> Who is good and beneficent.”  
> (Text from aish.com.)  
> It seems to me that having a new dinner guest might warrant this kind of blessing, though the closest thing I was able to find evidence of was that people should say Shehecheyanu when they meet a friend they haven’t seen in over 30 days. So this use of HaTov v’HaMeitiv is a bit of extrapolation, but not much. If it’s seriously wrong, please let me know and I’ll change it.
> 
> Lisbon has an entire museum dedicated to azulejos, and Porto seems to love their blue tiles.
> 
> Peach Melba is just peaches and ice cream topped with raspberry puree. It was created around 1892/3 in honor of soprano Nellie Melba.
> 
> JACK: TELL MISS COOK IF SHE’LL LET NELL IN THE STUDIO I’LL LOAD HER UP ON THE TRAIN!!! (Besides, Nell prob’ly misses her city-boy boyfriend—the horses up here don’t got that urban charm.)


	102. Dear Máša (24 May 1905)

_Dear Máša_ , she would write, if she could,  _my name is Hana, and I love your brother Roman._

(Even if she’d never been in love, Máša might understand better than her brothers would.)

_Probably you do not want to know much about me now, and that is not why I am writing anyway.  About me I will just say that I am 22, I was born in Slovakia, I am a house cleaner, and I think it is a miracle that I met Roman._

_I am writing to tell you about him. Your brother is a good man. I admire how strong he is, in body and in spirit; he has lived through hard things and not given up. And while he is tough he is also gentle, and thoughtful and funny and smart.  He loves to read– it is maybe his favorite thing to do.  He thinks you are very lucky to have a bookstore all of your own.  It might be worse for him to work at a bookstore than at the restaurant where he works now, because he would glare at anyone who interrupted his reading to ask for help.  And he would not even get tips, like he does at Tibby’s._

_He drinks strong black coffee.  He has a beautiful singing voice, that he does not use often enough.  Even if he combs it perfectly in the morning his hair will turn wild and curly by the end of the day.  He is kind to children and wants to make sure they are not hungry or hurt._ (She wasn’t sure if she would include this, not to one of the people he’d most wanted to look after and hadn’t been able to.  Maybe Máša would understand that losing them had made Roman wary and protective, eager to do for other children what he couldn’t do for his own siblings.

She certainly wouldn’t tell Máša that the sight of Roman with his hand on Tumbler’s shoulder, his face serious as they talked, or the way he sometimes refused Gussie’s pennies at lunch with a wink made her ache, sweet and hot, made her long for their future together and the children they would have.  Despite all his doubts Hana was certain he would be a good father, and sometimes when he kissed her, deep and deliberate and slow, with a patience that made her desperate, it was all she could do not to give in.  His sister would not want to hear any of that.)

_The trees in Central Park reminds him of Bohemia a little.  A while ago he met a woman named Libuše Procházka, who owns a restaurant where she sells Bohemian food and very good pastries.  For a long time her restaurant was the only place he could talk in Czech.  He stopped going there because he was afraid Mrs. Procházka wanted him to marry her niece, but then the niece married with someone else, so Roman could go back.  Then when Mrs. Procházka asked why he had not come and he told her, she laughed and said he was not so irresistible_  (if she were writing this letter for real and not just in her head, she would have to look up the spelling) _to all women that he had to hide.  But then she gave him some žemlovka and coffee for free, so he knew she liked to see him there again._

_He likes the smell of the rain and how it gets quiet when it snows.  When he smiles because he is truly happy, not just being polite, there is a dimple in his cheek.  It has been there often since your letter came._

No matter what else she said, this was the most important part of the letter:

_You and your brothers have made Roman very happy.  Before he found you, he was full of worry and sadness and regret.  Now, that he knows you are safe and happy and not so far away from each other, he feels much more peace.  Thank you for writing.  Thank you for forgiving him, so he could forgive himself.  Thank you._

_Sincerely,  
Hana Kollár_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: SEND THE LETTER, HANA!!!!!!!!!


	103. Medda (5 June 1905)

Her first client on Monday morning, a Mrs. Marie Clarkson, arrived just after they opened, somewhat unusually dressed.  The wide brim of her hat obscured her features, though it could not hide all of her red curls; a long, loose coat of bland beige likewise covered her outfit.  Judith introduced herself and invited the woman to sit; she did, pulling pins from her hat.  Once Mrs. Clarkson had removed it, patting her hair, Judith got her first good look at the woman.  She was older than Mother, wrinkles artfully blurred with makeup, without a single freckle on her pale skin.  There was something vaguely familiar about her, something that Judith couldn’t put her finger on.

“Now, Mrs. Clarkson—”

“It’s Miss, actually,” she corrected, with a smile that showed she’d taken no offense.  Though she was rarely shocked by clients, Judith was rendered speechless for a moment, both by the title—it seemed inconceivable that a woman who exuded such vitality would remain unmarried—and by her melodious voice.  “And you can call me Medda.”

Judith inclined her head in agreement.  “Very well.  Now, Medda, what do you have in mind for your portrait?”  She hadn’t had a client yet who hadn’t wanted to look more attractive than they truly were.  For women of a certain age, that effect was often achieved with a draped robe, one that, like Medda’s makeup, concealed one’s little weaknesses while highlighting one’s feminine shape.  If that was what Medda wanted, Judith might need to draw upon her mother’s expertise with the chiffon.  She wouldn’t suggest the drape to begin with, though, not unless Medda was truly at a loss.

Which she was definitively not.  She didn’t even need time to ponder.  “Fairly straightforward, I think,” she said, standing.  After handing Judith her hat, she unbuttoned the coat.  Unprofessional though it may have been, Judith gasped, because beneath the coast Medda wore a taffeta gown the color of jade.  The cloth was almost opalescent, giving the dress depth, subtle variations in hue that shifted with every movement.  Once she’d set aside the coat she reached behind her back and fiddled with something; the bustling that had kept the bottom of the skirt concealed under the coat loosened into a train.  It was a masterful work of the needle, presented with a showman’s flair.

At that thought Judith tilted her head to regard the vision before her at a different angle, one that made the woman look as if she were reclining.  From there it was no difficulty to imagine a spray of feathers haloing her head—though it had to be said that whoever had painted the sign outside Irving Hall had not done Medda Larkson, vaudeville impresario and currently Judith’s client, justice.  It wasn’t the first time someone had used a pseudonym in booking their appointment, either, though in this case she couldn’t be sure which name was the real one.  “It’s gorgeous,” Judith said frankly, as if her initial reaction hadn’t given that away.  After one last admiring look she stood, set the hat aside, and got to work.

It took only a moment to get Medda’s agreement on a dark backdrop.  She needed no props, nothing to distract from the effect that her dress and her presence had; though, Judith mused, a parasol, still furled and planted on the floor just off-center of her bodyline, wouldn’t have hurt.  Her pose was natural, poised, the product of a lifetime in the spotlight; Judith merely adjusted the angle of her chin and shifted one of the lights a tad, joking “You hardly need me here at all” as she did. 

Medda managed to give one sharp shake of her head before returning it to its prescribed position.  “Any guy out there can buy a Kodak, but this here takes skill.  It’s an art.  Don’t sell yourself short.”

As Judith stepped behind the camera Medda composed herself, taking deep breaths with eyes half closed.  “On three,” Judith called quietly, and on the count of two she saw Medda transform.  Whatever poise and confidence she’d displayed before was now redoubled; her smile was assured, while a knowing glint lit her eyes.  She was at once approachable and glamorous, all seemingly without effort.  Judith’s quiet “Three” was echoed by the click of the shutter.

Medda relaxed, and Judith picked up the conversation where they’d left off.  “Be that as it may, you made my job very easy.  If only all of my clients were vaudeville stars.”

“That brings me to the other reason I’m here.”  She resumed her seat, waiting until Judith had joined her to go on.  “I’d like you to come to my theater, photograph it and my acts.  We could do with some fresh advertising, and I was thinking of selling postcards in the lobby.”  Mr. Till had brought up the idea that they might do the same thing, with views of the city.  Postcards were smaller than prints, making them more affordable and more appealing to a wider audience than portraits.  And while visitors to the city might not have time to have a portrait made, they could easily buy a postcard.

“The Hippodrome isn’t doing me any favors,” Medda revealed.  “Our numbers are down—though they’ll level off, especially the longer that bill runs.  I’m not worried, but some of my acts are, and I don’t blame them; showbusiness isn’t the most stable work there is.  This will get their morale up, show them that I believe in my theater.”

“I’ll have to run the idea by Mr. Till and Mr. Cook, of course, but I expect they’ll approve.”

Medda nodded and stood in a movement as easy as a sigh.  “We don’t open until one on Monday afternoons,” she said, gathering up her coat.  From an elegant case she produced a business card—rather a plain one, Judith thought, given her career; she would have expected a colored ink, at the very least, but this was simply black on white,  _Medda Larkson_ ,  _Irving Hall_ , with the theater’s address and telephone number.  “Give me a call as soon as you can so I can make sure folks are in.  They’ll complain about coming in early, right up until you take their picture.”  She looked younger when she grinned, and Judith found herself smiling back.

Together they moved toward the door.  But before they left the studio, Judith said, “If you don’t mind my asking, what brought you here?  Surely you must know lots of other photographers who would jump at this chance.”  She suspected Mr. Till would try to poach the assignment from her once he learned of it. 

Medda turned back, one hand on the doorknob.  “A satisfied customer recommended you.”

She’d heard that not too long ago, and it had led to a project she enjoyed.  Still, thinking of her trick photography, it was with effort that she succeeded in not rolling her eyes.  “Let me guess.  Tumbler?”

Something that may have been disappointment flashed across her face.  “Does it matter who?  One businesswoman to another, a recommendation is a recommendation.  At the end of the day, it’s money in your pocket.  Never discount word of mouth.  It means you’ve done something right.”  Though she softened the criticism with a smile, it still took Judith aback.

Medda watched her for a moment with thoughtful eyes; Judith stared back, frank as ever, though her guard was up again.  She shouldn’t have spoken out of turn, should have let Medda walk away without questioning her.  The woman had scolded her like a child, and, worse still, she was right to: her suggestion had been immature—

Her mental rebuke was interrupted by the revelation of a wholly unexpected name.  With it the stinging was dulled, and an idea took root.

* * *

“Judith,” Mr. Jacobs said in surprise.  “Hello.  Were we expecting you?”

“No.  I hope that’s alright?”

“Of course.”  He swung the door wider and took a step back.  “Please, come in.”

A window was open somewhere in the apartment, admitting a cool breeze; the sound of water splashing came from the kitchen.  She got right to the point: “I came to ask if I might borrow your son.”

Mr. Jacobs called for David.  Maybe it was mean, but she couldn’t help waiting until he appeared, sleeves rolled up and hands wet and younger brother peeking out behind him, before she said, “Actually, I meant Les.”  One corner of her mouth curved up in a smirk she couldn’t stop; David’s response was a scowl, but it lacked conviction. 

“Ha!”  Les shoved past David.  “She wants me, Davey, not you.”  He planted himself in front of his brother, hands on his hips, and asked courteously, “How can I help ya, Miss Cook?”  If he’d been wearing a cowboy hat he would have tipped it.  Judith all but giggled. 

“I’ve taken an assignment to photograph a business and its employees.  It will be outside of the studio, and it would help if I had someone to help set up, move things, carry my equipment…”  In her peripheral vision she saw David about to interject and hurried to cut him off, glancing at him as she did.  “I could do it alone, but it would be easier with help.  The employees are coming in early and I don’t want to waste their time.”  His mouth shut and he gave a grudging nod. 

Les, on the other hand, was beaming.  “An’ you want me to help?”

“I think you’d be a great assistant.  You’re a quick learner, and you showed promise with the portrait you took.”  If she thought he’d looked pleased before, it was nothing compared to his expression now.  Hopefully her next words would not change that.  “I can only pay you a little, though, and the job has to be on a Monday.”

He shrugged.  “No problem.”

Mr. Jacobs’ eyebrows rose.  “You have school on Mondays, Les, in case you forgot.”  He hadn’t said no outright, though; there was still hope.

He wheeled to face his father.  “It’s the end of the year, Pop!  All our exams are over, so we’re not doin’ anythin’ important.  And look, Miss Cook said I showed promise.  How’m I s’posed to know what I want to do for a job unless I try stuff out?  I’ll learn more from Miss Cook than I would at school.”

Mr. Jacobs did not dispute this, though it pleased him none, either.  He turned to her.  “If it’s not at your studio, where is this job?”

She gave a casual wave of her hand.  “Oh, a theater called Irving Hall.”  Over Les’ wordless crow of delight she added, “In fact, the proprietor came to me on a recommendation from Mrs. Jacobs.”  Upon playing that trump card she shared a grin with Les.

Mr. Jacobs looked between the two, humming in thought.  “We’ll still have to ask your mother,” he told Les, “but if she recommended Miss Cook, I think she’ll agree.”

Les wanted her to wait until Mrs. Jacobs returned, on the grounds that if she asked his mother personally there would be no way she could refuse.  “And then you could stay for dinner!” he added.  But one glance at his lanky frame bolstered her determination to leave.  She’d just eaten with them not so long ago; it was too soon, for proper etiquette and for their budget, to join them again.  She made her excuses and extracted a promise that he let her know as soon as he could what the decision was.

David, who had been silent throughout the exchange, now wiped his hands on his trousers and offered, “I’ll walk you out.”

“No,” she answered, wincing when it came out rather more sharply than she meant it to.  She smiled in apology.  “It’s kind of you to offer, but you needn’t trouble yourself.”

“You—” he began hotly, then cut himself off with a sideways glance at his father.  She wished he hadn’t stopped.  “It’s no trouble.  But if you’re sure…”

“Yes.”  Where had that soft voice come from?  What was it agreeing to?  She cleared her throat.  “I’m sure.  Thank you.”  With one last smile at the three men and a goodbye, she turned and moved steadily away, willing her feet to keep going, not to carry her back to their door and ask David what he’d been about to say.

* * *

When she returned from lunch the next afternoon Mr. Till handed her a note.  “One of your urchins delivered it,” he said, “the precocious little blonde one.”

“Gussie,” she murmured, distracted, as she unfolded it.

“That miniature con artist wouldn’t leave until I bought a paper from her, too.”  He was still sulking about the fact that he hadn’t been asked to do the Irving Hall job, claiming that he was more temperamentally suited than she to document the lives of vaudevillians.  “Temperamental is right,” she’d scoffed under her breath before telling him, “I believe Miss Larkson wants this completed sometime this year.  You’d all but move into the theater, given half a chance.”  He’d merely sniffed at that, which Judith took to mean that she was correct.

“Surely that makes her an extortionist, then, not a con artist,” she said now.  “Hush, please.”

_Dear Miss Cook,_  
I will be happy to join you on this assignment.  I will come by tomorrow after school to discuss arrangements.   
Yours truly,   
Les Jacobs

True to his word he showed up just before four.  After accepting a glass of tea and a biscuit, he sat listening intently as she outlined their task.  The first step, she said, was that he ought to call her Judith if they were going to be working together.  He smiled shyly and agreed.  She showed him the sketches she’d roughed out of possible shots and poses, and he, apparently well acquainted with the venue and its denizens, supplied information about the lights, the backdrops, the costumes and props.  By the time he left, set to meet her at the studio again first thing on Monday, she’d added several details to her notes, and was convinced she’d made a good choice in asking for his help.

On a rainy Monday morning he helped her load her equipment into a cab, then settled in beside her.  Checking to be sure she had her notebook, she said, “You know the theater well.”  

As she’d known he would, he took the bait.  “Yeah, I’ve spent a lot o’ time there.  Jack proposed there, an’ he an’ Sarah got married there, ya know.”  She did not know, but by the time they arrived she’d heard all about it.  Les’ lively recounting of the events and his integral role in them had her chuckling all the way through the front doors and up to the base of the stage. 

“You’re very good at that,” she said.  With great care he set the crate of plates down, right up against the stage, where it was unlikely to be kicked in passing.  “Do you want to be a writer, too?” 

He didn’t have the opportunity to answer—beyond making a face at the comparison to his brother—before someone else did for him.  “It’d be a shame if he did,” Medda announced, emerging from backstage, “since he’s a great little actor.  Though not so little anymore.”  She held her arms open, smiling wide, and Les hopped up onstage to hug her.  “Good to see you, kid.”

“You, too.”

“Need any help?” she asked, one arm around Les’ shoulders. 

Judith shook her head as she unfolded the tripod.  “We’ll start with the stage, while it’s still clean.  Then I’d like a group shot of everyone who’s available, and after that we’ll move on to individual portraits.”

Medda gave an approving nod.  “I’ll let everyone know.”  She ducked behind the curtain again, leaving Les alone on the stage; he looked perfectly comfortable there, while Judith knew that even with no one watching she would feel exposed. 

“What should I do?”

At her direction he adjusted the curtains, making sure they fell neatly, while she moved the camera into place.  As she peered through the viewfinder she was conscious of the seats behind and around her filling with performers.  She did her best to ignore them, hoping they were disregarding her in return.  “Alright, Les,” she called, waving him off the stage; when he was clear she took the picture.

She remained behind the camera for a few beats longer than necessary as she mentally prepared for what came next.  After taking a deep breath she turned and cast a cool eye over the crowd of performers, all made up in their costumes.  “If I could have everyone onstage, please,” she called, “and about nine chairs”; then, as they began their migration, she hoisted the camera and moved it closer.  Les handed her a new plate and secured the old in the case as she slid in the unexposed negative.  Then he hopped easily onto the stage and took the camera when she lifted it.  Judith made her way up more slowly, considering the group as she approached.  She relieved a young man in a sequined waistcoat of his chair and positioned it center stage.  The other chairs soon flanked it.  “Medda here,” she said, indicating the one in the middle, before directing the female dancers to fill in the rest.  Then it was a matter of achieving the same symmetry in the row standing behind, a more motley assortment of performers.  She finished by dividing the musicians in half and positioning one cluster of them at each end of the larger group, their instruments in hand.  Though the arrangement seemed to take far too long with all of those eyes watching her, in reality it was only a few minutes before she was stepping behind the camera once again.

“Ready?  Big smiles on three, please.”  At least she wouldn’t have to worry about awkward expressions with this group.  Their smiles slid into place as easily as she pressed the shutter release.

Next came a shot of all the ladies, then all of the gentlemen, and finally the musicians.  After that Judith had Les run a dust mop over the stage before calling for Medda’s dancers, the Bowery Beauties.  “If you could do the splits, like at the end of the number with the feathers.”  She couldn’t remember the name but hummed the tune.

“I thought you said you’d never been here,” Les said—quietly, thank goodness.

“I came after we talked the other day.”  Before them the girls were slowly lowering themselves into their splits, all in a row with their arms around each others’ shoulders.  If the theater didn’t sell out of prints of this particular pose, with four lean, stockinged limbs on display and four winsome smiles, Judith would retire.  “This job required a little advance research.  Look this way, ladies.”  They obliged, and she swapped plates quickly before they moved.  “Now one more, but I want you to blow a kiss to Les here.”  Obliging, the girls giggled, Les sputtered, and the camera clicked.

The rest of the portraits moved along at a good pace.  Her self-consciousness faded as she worked, until she all but forgot about the people behind her.  With Les switching plates, Judith didn’t feel rushed; she was able to suggest poses and adjust props.  They were some of the most dynamic portraits she’d taken, full of lively, athletic poses; she particularly hoped that the second plate of the juggler, with two balls suspended in the air over his head, came out well.  When Medda came out in a glittering dress, Judith adjusted the focus but let Les take the picture.  The other woman looked nearly as proud of Les as Mrs. Jacobs had.

Judith double-checked her notes, glanced over the now greatly diminished audience, and asked Les, “Have we missed anyone?”

“Nope, I don’t think so.”

She drummed her fingers against the little notebook, feeling a little weary after marshaling all of those acts into position.  And that was who was missing, obviously.  “Are any of the stagehands here?  And ushers, ticket sellers?”

Medda’s surprise quickly turned to approval, and she nodded.  Judith expected Les to be dispatched to round the lot up; instead Medda put two fingers to her lips and gave a long, sharp, shockingly loud whistle.  In addition to deafening Judith for some seconds, it also served to summon a burly crew, whose everyday clothes seemed especially drab in comparison to the velvet curtains behind them.  “What do ya need, Miss Larkson?” asked one, an unlit stub of a cigar dangling from his mouth.

“Miss Cook is photographing everyone who works at the Irving,” she explained, “including you.”

“The show could hardly go on without you, could it?  Now, gentlemen, if you could stand there…”  Unlike the performers, these men were less comfortable in the limelight.  She allowed them to adopt any posture they chose: some crossed their arms over barrel chests, while some planted their hands on their hips, and one man tucked his thumbs into his waistband.

“Are we smilin’?” one of them muttered.

“You worried about lookin’ pretty?” another retorted, to sniggers.  To a man they all adopted expressions of satisfaction or pride or superiority that were somehow not smiles.

As she thanked them and they moved off, back into the shadows, she wondered if she shouldn’t have photographed them with the curtain raised to reveal the depths of the stage that were their domain.  Well, she’d wait until she saw how the pictures had come out; a follow-up session might be in order.  To Medda she said, “I should have proofs for you by Wednesday next week.  I’ll telephone to let you know.”

“Thank you.”  They shook hands.  “I’m looking forward to it.  I have a good feeling about them.”  She smiled—not the inviting smile that would reach to the back of the balcony, but a more relaxed, genuine one.  Then she kissed Les’ cheek and left them to get on with their packing up. 

It was strange to see it was still raining when they left the theater.  She vaguely remembered that it had been when they’d entered, but the lights and costumes and glamour had pushed all thoughts of the outside world, of reality, from her mind.  She stood under the overhang for a few minutes until Les was able to flag down a cab, and then the two of them bundled the equipment and themselves in.  When they were settled in and moving she said, “I hope that was better than school.”

Les chuckled.  “O’ course.”

“Tell me three things you learned, so that if anyone asks we can prove it wasn’t just a day off.”  Three things should be no problem for a smart young man like him.  Besides, it would be interesting to hear what he’d picked up.

“Anyone like Dave, ya mean,” he said dryly.  “Let’s see.  One thing is that ya have to be careful with sequins, ’cause they’ll throw light and mess with the focus.  Next thing…sometimes you can just show up somewhere an’ start shooting, but it’s better if ya know somethin’ about it beforehand.  Like how you knew to get Maeve an’ Rosie an’ Ella an’ Maggie to do the splits.”  Judith wondered which of the girls had caught his eye to get him to blush so, and if the Jacobs siblings had a preference for Irish sweethearts.  “An’ it’s not somethin’ I learned yet, but I had a question.  What happens if ya leave a plate in after you’ve already taken a picture with it, an’ then ya take another picture on it?  What does it look like?”

“That’s a double exposure.  What it looks like depends on the light value of each exposure, but generally speaking, some of each image is visible.  It creates almost a ghostly effect.  We have some at the studio I can show you.”  He nodded, and she felt suffused with affection for him, at his willingness to ask questions and his easy amiability.  What a wonderful life he could have, if he went on being so likeable and so genuinely liking others.

Back at the studio they unloaded the equipment.  It was just after one; Les ran out to buy them some pretzels from a perseverant vendor, and they ate in the workroom.  Then, as he watched, Judith developed a single print.  It took at least three times as long as it usually did, since she had to narrate every step to Les, standing at her elbow.  He didn’t ask to try yet, for which she was glad; she guessed he knew that these photos were too important for an amateur to experiment on.  By the time he had to leave, she had one proof, of the stage.  “This negative would make a good double exposure,” she said, considering the folds of the velvet curtains.  “Imagine this, with a dancer draped in gauze in front of it.”

His eyes were shining.  “Or a violinist.”  Just as she was about to praise his imagination he added, “Or somebody with no head!” with a chortle.

Before he left, there was something she had to do, for which she had prepared.  She’d asked around; Gussie claimed she could make six bits a day, but Judith’s doubts were seconded by Tumbler’s rolling eyes.  In his experience, fifty cents’ profit was on the high end for most newsies.  “That’s without anything big happenin’.  Get us a good murder or a torrid affair an’ even Davey could earn half a dollar.”  It had come as little surprise to her that forthright David was not an expert salesman.

But fifty cents, even if likely more than he would have made otherwise, seemed too little to pay an assistant for a day’s work.  Judith handed him a dollar.  “Thank you for your work today.”

He squinted down at the dollar in his hand, and then up at her.  “Are you sure you wanna give me this much?” he asked, face screwed up in painful integrity.

“Quite sure.  You were a big help, and I enjoyed having you there.”

He grinned.  “Me too.”  Rather than taking his leave once he’d been paid, Les lingered, staring at the rose arbor backdrop.  “Hey, Judith.”  He paused; his cheeks were tinged with pink when he turned to her.  “Can I take a picture of you?  Sometime?”

Her whole body stiffened in her desperation to say no, though she kept her lips clamped shut.  Like any good father who was also a photographer, Papa had taken many pictures of her.  That had been years ago, though, when she was young, when her face was still rounded, framed with long hair and set with wide, pale eyes.  People had remarked back then that she looked so grown-up for her age, with her strange old eyes and solemn mien.  Once childhood had passed, taking with it the appeal of youth, all that remained of beauty was her eyes.  Mother insisted that they were arresting, even when rendered in black and white instead of their nearly feline green, but one feature couldn’t make up the deficiency of the rest of her face.  The last time she’d consented to being photographed was just before she’d sailed for Portugal, wearing one of the new suits she’d had for the occasion.  If all had gone according to plan there would have been more portraits on her return, of her fiancé and their wedding.  There had been no more photographs of her since then.

Les knew none of this.  All he knew was that he wanted to practice, and that she wouldn’t let him use a proper camera without her there, anyway; asking her to be the subject would simply kill two birds with one stone.  So while she took no pleasure in the prospect, she understood his motives, and found herself agreeing—with certain conditions.  “You’ll do it all, start to finish,” she warned.  “Clean an old plate, prepare it, choose the outfit and pose and lighting, and develop it.  I’ll tell you what to do if you need it, but if you want to photograph me, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Her stern tone seemed altogether lost on him, because he beamed at her, nodding quickly.  “After school tomorrow?”

The question shook loose a laugh from her throat.  “No!  You’ll need more time to think about it, and I have to get started on developing today’s prints.”  His lower lip poked out just a bit in the beginning of a pout.  “Come Sunday afternoon,” she offered.  “I shouldn’t be very busy then, and that way I’ll have more of these pictures done to show you.  How does that sound?”

“Alright.”  He nodded seriously.  “I’ll be ready.  Thanks, Judith.”

She didn’t doubt it; but she wasn’t sure she would be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEDDA AND LES AND JUDITH!!!!!!!!


	104. An Invitation (10 June 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**Dear Les, would you like to come with me to see a show at the Hippodrome?  It would be my treat.  If so, let me know what evening would be best.  And please ask David to come along too, since he owes Jack a detailed review.  Sincerely, Judith**

 

A.

Dear Judith,

I would like that a lot! Thank you. I am available any time except Fridays, but Dave says Sunday evening would be best for him. (He says he’ll bring his notebook for Observations.) Would that work for you?

Yours truly,

Les Jacobs


	105. The Hippodrome (11 June 1905)

“I’m not sure I like this.”  David frowned as he looked up at the building.

“That hardly promises an unbiased review.”  The intended levity of the remark fell flat, and the pleasant thrill of anticipation she’d been feeling all day began to curdle in her stomach.  Perhaps they  _had_  just agreed to come along to be polite.

“I know what ya mean,” Les said, apparently ignoring her comment.  “It kind o’ feels like we’re two-timin’ Medda.”

She hadn’t expected slavish gratitude, but neither of them were acting like they were particularly happy to be there. Still, she didn’t want to give up now, not after they’d gone all the way up to 43rd Street.  “Look at it this way,” she offered, hoping logic would have an effect.  “If this were any other day, would you be at Irving Hall right now?”

“Probably not,” David allowed.

“So it’s not as if you’re giving the Hippodrome money that otherwise would have gone to Irving Hall.  In fact,  _you’re_  not giving the Hippodrome money at all,” she added, an edge to the already gauche words.  “If you’re really so opposed to it, then we won’t go.”  Her shrug, meant to be casual and dismissive, felt jerky.  She’d been looking forward to this more than she cared to admit; now the idea that it might end prematurely, that they were not so interested in her company as she was in theirs, stung.  Swallowing, she set her eyes on the theater, doing her best to ignore the brothers as they decided.

It didn’t take long before David announced, “No, you’re right.  Besides, you invited us an’ we said we’d come, so we’re goin’.”

“If we still feel bad about it later, we can all go to Medda’s sometime to make up for it,” Les said.

Despite their newfound assurance, she looked from one to the other.  “Are you certain this time?”

“Yeah.  Let’s go.”  Les strode forward, leaving the others to follow.

David fell in beside her as they joined the line at the box office.  “Seeing this place, and all these people, made me realize how hard this must be for Medda.  She’s done a lot for us over the years, an’ I don’t like the idea of her or her business suffering.”

“That’s understandable.  But she wasn’t worried when we spoke.  She’s a shrewd businesswoman; I doubt she’d appreciate you underestimating her acumen.”

His mouth opened, but he didn’t manage to answer before it was their turn at the box office.  She handed over a dollar and got a quarter and three tickets in return; after tucking away the change she doled the tickets out.  Les held open the door for them and they stepped into the lobby.  David’s eyes now glinted with the keen light that she knew meant he was observing, assessing; a tiny frisson of excitement raced up her spine, but she shrugged it away as expectation of the show to come.

In the lobby Les broke away from them, calling “Save me a seat!” as he went.  She opened her mouth to summon him back, or at least ask where he was going, but it was too late; he’d already been swallowed by the throng.  The two months since the theater’s opening had not lessened the steady stream of visitors, who now bore David and Judith went them.  When she’d been here before with her mother, she’d mostly just gotten impressions, like of the hundreds of electric bulbs lighting the lobby; weeks later it was still hard to observe her surroundings without risking running into any other theatergoers.

Once up the stairs to the first balcony they were able to pause, heading to the very front to have a look around.  Hands on the carved balustrade, David let out a whistle.  “Hope Les can find us in here,” he said, not without cause: there were thousands of seats before and below and above them—the papers had said upwards of five thousand—lushly upholstered and set in curving rows.  The place was decorated in scarlet and ivory and gold, and while there may have been hundreds of lights in the lobby, there were easily thousands in here, in sconces and chandeliers and lining the edge of the massive stage.

“It must cost a fortune to light this place,” she said, still gazing around the room.

“They’re not hurtin’ for customers.”  He glowered a little as he watched a well-to-do couple below them promenade down the aisle toward the pricier orchestra seats.  The theater was already half full, with more people coming in every minute.  She jumped when he touched her elbow, though he didn’t appear to notice the way she startled.  “Come on, we’d better get to our seats.”

Unlike Irving Hall, the Hippodrome sold assigned seats.  The cheapest were, of course, furthest from the stage and in the balconies; but even from up here they still had a decent view.  Of course, with a stage that size that would soon be packed with performers, no eye in the audience would lack for something to fill it.  The number printed on David’s ticket was on the aisle; he stood aside as Judith took her assigned place next to him.  She assumed that Les would be on her other side.

When David was seated he pulled out his notebook and a short pencil.  Then he leaned toward her to make himself heard over the hubbub around them.  “Didn’t you say a while ago you were plannin’ to come here?  With your mother?”

She would not lean—could not, the way he was sprawled over the armrest between them—but she did incline her head toward him.  “Yes.  And we did.”

“And it was so good you wanted to come back?”

His raised eyebrows put her on the defensive.  Rather than answer she shot back, “Are you always so ungracious?”  Ignoring his shock she continued, gesturing around them.  “This is a spectacle that’s hard to fathom unless you’ve seen it for yourself.  I thought Les would enjoy it as a reward for his help, and since he looked so at home on the stage at Irving Hall.  I thought  _you_  would appreciate seeing what everyone’s been talking about, what all of the papers are writing about.  I thought it would be fun to see Les’ reactions to all of this, and to talk with you about it afterward.  No,” she said, rattling her program at him until he drew back, “ _A Yankee Circus on Mars_  is not the acme of artistic achievement.  But it’s worth seeing again with you.  Or so I thought.”  She snatched her bag out of her lap and stood, the first tremblings of humiliation shaking her.  Oh, why had she thought this was a good idea?  Why had she let herself believe that they might like spending time with her when there was no work involved?  She was a fool.  David bolted to his feet beside her.  She didn’t meet his eyes as she said, “Excuse me,” pleased at least that her voice wasn’t shaking.

“Judith—”

Just then, of course, the house lights began to dim, and Les sidled past them to his seat.  “Thanks,” he hissed as he settled down.  She remained standing, staring past David’s ear; he made no move to let her pass.  Les tugged at her skirt.  “Aren’t ya goin’ to sit down, Judith?  The show’s about to start.”

Her options were to sit and endure her humiliation, or to leave with thousands of eyes watching her.  Stiff-backed, she sank back down.  If she left at intermission no one around them would be the wiser; she supposed she was lucky this was just the one play, not the four-hour, multi-part production that the grand opening had been.  David sat, too, but whereas she stared forward he leaned even closer than he had before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, low and quiet and unmistakably sincere.  “You’re right.  I do want to be here, and I’m grateful to you for inviting us.”  Then he sat back.  Les, oblivious, passed over a bag of sassafras candies he’d procured; without thinking she took one and stuck it in her mouth.

Watching Les watch the extravaganza onstage wasn’t quite as delightful as she’d hoped it would be, but it did soothe her turbulent feelings somewhat.  Try as she might, though, she couldn’t escape noticing every time David glanced her way.  At the intermission she rushed off; but rather than fleeing altogether she hurried to the ladies’ room, lurking in one corner like a dark weed towering above bright, fragrant wildflowers, only emerging when the bell announced the second half was due to begin.  Sometime during the first act she had decided that embarrassed or not, it would be inexcusably rude to leave early, as she had issued the invitation; if she claimed she wasn’t feeling well, Les and David would doubtless leave to accompany her home, causing them to miss the second half.  No, she would have to stay, though she returned to her seat wearily.  David said nothing as he stood to let her pass, though his hand brushed her arm as she went by; even Les’ grin was less buoyant than usual.  For that, for distracting from his enjoyment of the show, she hated herself.  During the second half her previous indignation and annoyance distilled into a regretful melancholy, and she felt the gulf between herself and the nice, normal Jacobs boys grow until it felt impassable.

So it came as a surprise when Les gallantly took her arm as they left the theater, and when David, smile not reaching his worried eyes, asked, “Can we take you for an ice cream?”

“A—what?”

“Or a soda, if ya want that instead.”

She stopped, her hand slipping from Les’ arm.  “I’m confused.  I should be apologizing to you for ruining your evening, and you’re offering me dessert.”

The boys exchanged glances.  Whatever they communicated to each other, it was David who addressed her.  “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about what’s upsetting you with somethin’ in your stomach.”

At the mention of the organ it turned over.  “Apart from my apology, there isn’t anything to talk about.”

The lights on the marquee made Sixth Avenue bright as day, and showed plainly the hardening of David’s expression.  “There’s plenty to talk about.  First off, I have to apologize, too.  I’ve been told that my teasing can come across as a little antagonistic at times.  I really wasn’t tryin’ to rile you up, an’ I shouldn’t’ve made you think I was ungrateful for your generosity.”

“It was very kind of ya to invite us tonight,” Les added.  “I’m glad we got to see the show.  It’s really somethin’.  But I’m sorry if I did anythin’ to offend ya.”  His face was troubled, and her stomach twisted again.

“Of course you didn’t, Les.  It’s me.  I…I’m difficult, I know.  That’s why it’s probably best if we didn’t spend so much time together.”  Even as she spoke, the idea that had made so much sense seconds earlier lost its coherence, and she lost faith in it.  She didn’t retract the statement, though, but clenched her fists and readied herself to argue.

Resistance from David she’d expected.  She was not prepared for the resolute tightening of Les’ jaw.  It made him look much older.  “For our own good, I bet.  Do we get any say in it?  ’Cause I think you’re interestin’, and I like spendin’ time with you.  Either you feel the same way about us or ya don’t, but don’t act like you’re doin’ us a favor by stayin’ away.”  Even though his words weren’t particularly vehement she shrank back from them, feeling as if she’d been struck.

“You’ve met Jack, but ya didn’t know him when he was seventeen.  We know difficult.  We can handle it.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown that she knew darkened her face.  “But why would you want to?  I’m no one to you.  I’m—it’s not worth your time.”

“No one?  You’re my partner,” David said, at the same time Les cried, “We’re friends!”  He threw his older brother a look of frustration.  David squeezed his shoulder before looking at her.  It was not comfortable being under such scrutiny; but it was not like the way she’d been watched as the ship drew closer to New York, not like the stares she imagined were following her everywhere in those first few months back home.  She could bear this attention.  She had to.

His tone was even as he said, “If you don’t want to see us anymore, we’ll leave ya alone—except for professional reasons.  But if you think you’re doin’ us a favor, or if you’re afraid we’re just, I don’t know, humoring you to be nice, you’re wrong.”

“’Cause Davey’s not that nice.”

“Right.”  Though both their faces were serious, she felt helpless against a bubble of mirth.  She pinched the web between her forefinger and thumb to stave off an inopportune laugh.  “It’s up to you,” he went on, “but if it was up to me, we’d be havin’ ice cream right now, or coffee tomorrow, an’ we’d talk.  About the show, or why you’re so skittish with me—us,” he amended, eyes darting to Les as if just remembering he was there, “or your favorite color.  Anythin’ you want.”

_Anything you want?  You could tell him the truth_ , her mind whispered, immediately to be answered,  _And see how much he likes you once he knows.  See how quickly your little partnership crumbles._ She shook her head to clear it.  “You’re adamant about the talking, aren’t you?”

He smiled then, more amused than rueful.  “They don’t call me the Walking Mouth for nothin’.”  As he looked at her, the smile took on a pensive quality.  “Though it seems like I’m always sayin’ the wrong thing with you.”

“I’m no better.  So why do you keep trying?”  She knew why she did, and couldn’t imagine his answer would be the same as hers.

“I’m hopin’ sooner or later I’ll get it right.  And I know it’ll be worth it when I do.”

“My vote is for sooner.”  When David chuckled it felt safe to smile, if only a little.  Once again Les offered his arm; she took it gratefully, reflecting as she did that the way forward was one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not have made up A Yankee Circus on Mars to save my life. A circa 1905 photo of the Hippodrome displays said title. There’s a good bit of info on the theater online—the Internet Broadway Database lists everything that played there—and the inaugural shows really were four hours long, featuring the aforementioned musical, a Civil War drama called The Raiders, a “circus tournament,” and the Dance of the Hours ballet. It’s not clear whether or not every performance was all four parts and all four hours, so I fudged that detail.
> 
> Dear Judith,
> 
> If ya want an Official Review o’ all the trouble I caused when I was seventeen, an’ all the ways Davey an’ Les both stood by me, I’ll write ya the novel.
> 
> You should trust ‘em. I learned to.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Jack


	106. J.R. (17 June 1905)

She and David reached the restaurant at almost the same time, though he’d had farther to come than she did.  Tibby’s was close to the studio, yet, much to David’s shock, she’d never been there.  He ushered her in and they found a table away from the mid-morning glare at the windows; all the while he explained how it had been and still was a favorite gathering spot of the newsboys.  She took that to mean it was cheap, with an owner who would overlook a lack of social graces.

As they waited to be served David explained, “The food isn’t gourmet by any means, but the service is…indescribable.”  He grinned up at the waiter who’d just arrived, in no great hurry.

“Why, ’d you forget all the dirty words we taught ya?” the young man retorted.  David slapped him on the back.  He was Tumbler’s brother, she remembered, though his name escaped her; it made her feel guilty when he said, “Welcome to Tibby’s, Miss Cook.”

As she said hello her face must have betrayed her, because he smirked a little and said, “It’s Roman.  Or ya might hear the guys call me Skittery.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.  “You’ll understand that I’m much better with faces than names.  And please, call me Judith.”

He nodded, apparently unruffled by her inability to remember his name.  “Makes sense.  Ya look at people for a livin’, after all.”

“How’s Hana?” David asked.

There was an immediate softening in Roman’s eyes at the sound of her name.  “She’s good.  She works too hard—”  Frustration flashed across his face, and David nodded sympathetically.  “—but she never complains.  She’s amazin’.”  Some of that helpless anger drained from his face; his shoulders even lost their tense line.

“Tell her we said hello,” David said.  Whether he meant the rest of the Jacobs family or the two of them was unclear, but Roman nodded.

Then he glanced around the café, only half full at this hour, before looking back at David.  “’S a good thing ya didn’t bring her here for lunch,” he confided, “not when Gussie might see her.  I’d hate to hear that bawlin’ again.”

David groaned and hid his face in one hand.  She thought she saw his cheeks pink beneath it.  “Is she still…?”

“In love with ya?  Yep.”  Roman rocked back on his heels, wearing a very satisfied smirk.

“Infatuated,”  David hurried to clarify.  “Oy.”

Roman snickered.  “Can ya blame her, Davey?  With those pretty eyes, and that nice curly hair.”  He ruffled said hair until David swatted the offending arm, then flung out a fist at Roman’s midsection.  He dodged it, laughing—and to tell the truth, in spite of the immaturity of their roughhousing, Judith was laughing, too.  Roman shot her a quick wink as David ran a hand through his hair.

“I’ll get your coffee.  D’you want anythin’ else?” Roman asked.  Judith said no, thank you, and David muttered something under his breath as Roman walked away.

She studied him for a moment, pondering how much to tease him about his admirer.  His blush hadn’t gone away, and for just a second she thought that she couldn’t blame the young girl for her feelings.  “I thought she would’ve moved on by now,” he mumbled.

With mock sympathy she said, “It must be difficult, being so attractive to young girls.  How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” he sulked.

“Hmm.  I can see the problem.  In most marriages with a 14-year age gap, the bridegroom is considered a catch because of his fortune.  But you’re lucky—you know that she likes you even without great wealth, and you’ve plenty of time to earn the money.”  She patted his hand; his eyes darted down to the spot before rolling.

“Yeah, lucky me.  Think she knows ya don’t get rich as a reporter?”

“Best not tell her right away.  Wait until you’ve hooked her for good before you break that news.”

He shook his head.  “Can ya imagine doin’ that to somebody?  Courting someone ya don’t really care about, stringin’ ’em along just because they’re pretty or rich?”  His disapproval was almost palpable. 

She shifted in her seat.  Roman brought their coffee then; the interruption was a relief, as it gave her time to formulate a coherent response.  She took a sip of before adding cream, giving the mixture a slow swirl with her spoon.  “I don’t think you’re being altogether fair,” she said mildly.  “Say you’re a young lady from a certain class—not in the Four Hundred by any means, but not desperately poor, either.  What are your options?  Society frowns upon you doing anything to earn a living, no matter how noble the career; but without it your parents must support you.  Marrying well is not always the mercenary endeavor men imagine it to be.  For some women it is a matter of survival.”  He had to understand—not just for her sake, not just so his estimation of her wouldn’t sink, but so that he didn’t forget the crushingly practical choices so many women had to make.

David leaned forward.  “You work.  Do people look down on you for it?”

“I’m sure some do.  I think it helps that I work in my father’s business, and that it’s an artistic one.  An interest in art and familial concern are acceptable qualities in a young lady.”  His wry expression matched her tone.

“Would you marry a rich fella, if it meant you’d be more respectable to society?”

As if any rich man would have her, looking the way she did.  “Not just for the respectability, no.  But if marrying someone would make your parents’ lives easier, and Les’, wouldn’t you do it?”  She met his gaze across the table, eyes narrowing a fraction.  “You’d at least think about it.”

It was his turn to shift in his seat.  “They wouldn’t want me to marry somebody I didn’t love, though.”  It didn’t answer the question, not entirely, and he knew it.

“But you’d do it anyway,” she pressed, unsure why she was so confident in her assertion, or why it made her uneasy.  “You’d sacrifice that bit of your happiness for them.”

“Well…yeah.”  He shrugged.  “Wouldn’t you?”

_I almost did._ “Yes.”

He didn’t respond for a while, obviously deep in thought as he sipped his coffee.  The quiet between them, punctuated by the conversation of other diners and the clatter of saucers and spoons, was not uncomfortable; after a moment he said, “That’s how I got here, I guess.  Before my father worked in the print shop he was at a factory, an’ when he got hurt they fired him.  That’s when Les an’ I started sellin’ papers.  Papa couldn’t get any work until his arm healed, an’ Sarah was already workin’; we had to do our part, but I wanted to prove I could take care o’ my family.  Probably should’ve picked somethin’ I’d be good at for that.  So instead of earnin’ money we went on strike.”  He paused again.  “But that’s how we met Denton, who helped me get this job.  I’ve got all that to thank for meeting you.”

Thoughts of all she’d lost with the abrupt end of her engagement had often filled her with regret.  Her relationship with her grandmother would never be the same; her best chance at marrying was gone.  Only on rare occasions did it occur to her that she had gained something better than what she’d lost.  Now, sitting across from David, drinking truly average coffee, was one of those times.  If she were married to Heitor now, she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have gone to Valhalla, maybe wouldn’t have even met David and Les to begin with.  For the first time she felt what might have been gratitude for what happened.  She smiled into her cup, feeling warmer than just the liquid could account for. 

“David,” she began, and then, remembering something he’d said before, stopped.  With her head tilted to one side she asked, “Do they really call you the Walking Mouth?”

He swallowed hastily, breaking into a smile and then laughing once his mouth was empty.  “Not on a day-to-day basis, no,” he said, running a napkin over his mouth.  “It’s usually just Dave or Davey.  Mouth or the Walkin’ Mouth is reserved for the times when I’m makin’ a nuisance of myself.”

“That often?” she pretended surprise.

He groaned.  “Probably had that comin’,” he allowed, and she smirked at him over the rim of her mug.  “What about you?  What do people call you?  Judy?”

She shuddered.  “Never that, I beg of you.”  Something flashed in his eyes—she hated to think it was mischief, but couldn’t believe it would be anything sweeter than that.  “It’s mostly just Judith.”  She raised one shoulder in a shrug, more resolved than ever to keep Mr. Till’s nickname a secret. 

“Aha.   _Mostly_ ,” he repeated, leaning forward, arms crossed on the tabletop, looking entirely too keen for her liking.  “That means there is somethin’ else.”

“And you’ll pester me until you discover what it is.”

That had him sitting up straight, hands splayed on either side of his mug.  In a dignified tone he said, “Miss Cook, I’m a professional journalist.  I do not pester.  I research and dig and ask lots an’ lots o’ questions until I get answers.”  The twist to his mouth was positively devilish.

Even when she was young, her friends had used her full name—especially after feeling the weight of the glare “Judy” earned them.  “My parents sometimes call me Judite.  It’s the Portuguese version of Judith.”

“Judite.  That’s pretty.  Say it again?”  He turned one ear toward her and listened as she slowly repeated the three syllables.  The sound of the name brought to mind her favorite things about Portugal: blue tiles and the smell of the river and the sharp tang of lemon juice, sweetened with just a hint of sugar.  He nodded.  “I like it.”

“Me, too.  Is some kind of pseudonym required to be a newsie?”

“Nah.  But when some guys are runaways, an’ some never had a family that they can remember, gettin’ a new name is kind of a rite of passage.  It shows you belong there, even if ya don’t belong anywhere else.”  Roman stopped at the table, hoisting a carafe in question; at their nods he refilled both mugs.  When he’d gone David continued, “If you were a newsgirl, it might be somethin’ like…Shutter, or Clicks.  Maybe Flashbulb—Flash for short, if Blink had any say.  Like the way Jack was called Cowboy, because o’ his interests.”  He assessed her for a moment.  “But sometimes it’s based on some defining characteristic.  Crutchy uses a crutch, Kid Blink wears an eye patch.  For you it’d be—”

Time seemed to slow as he looked at her.  It was only the tiniest of pauses, but in it she tried to steel herself against the insult to come.  Would it be “Giddyup,” for the horse face the men on the ship had said she had, or would it be a reference to her nose?  At the same time she tried to swallow the disappointment she already felt rising.  Her hands clutched hard at the mug, too hot now against her skin.  “—somethin’ about your eyes.  Emerald, maybe, though that’d just get shortened too, to Em.”  His gaze dropped and he shrugged; as if she weren’t surprised enough, he seemed chagrined, and added hurriedly, “Or maybe Stretch, since you’re tall for a girl.  No one ever said newsies were very original when it comes to names.”

They both stared into their coffee for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.  Judith’s swirled so that she was unable to catch hold of any one of them, about her eyes and how wrong she’d been yet again and the way her name sounded in his mouth.  Her name—that was it.  She cleared her throat and forced herself to adopt a neutral tone.

“While we’re on the subject, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”  That caught his attention, as she thought it might; he tore his gaze from his mug to watch her attentively.  “Does your editor know that your photographer is a woman?”

David started to answer, then paused, thinking.  “Probably,” he said.  “He wouldn’t be a very good editor if he didn’t know what his men—um, his staff, that is—were up to.  And obviously Denton knows.”

“And no one will mind?  Oh, of course people will mind,” she answered herself, twirling her fingers through the air; “people always mind whenever women do anything out of the ordinary.  What I mean is, will anyone who matters mind?  Will the name Judith Cook under a photograph in the  _Sun_  cause trouble for you, or Mr. Denton?”

“Denton wouldn’t have allowed it if he thought it would, especially not for me.  He may have a solid reputation as an ace war correspondent, but he wouldn’t let me do anything that would threaten my career.  So I don’t think ya need to worry about us.  And it’s not like you’d be the first female photographer ever published in a newspaper.  Jessie Tarbox Beals’ pictures have been in a couple o’ papes, includin’ the  _Herald_.  Maybe you’d be the first woman published in the  _Sun_ , but not the city.”

Mrs. Beals had made a name for herself at the Louisiana Purchase Exhibition the year before, going to all sorts of lengths to get her photographs.  Or rather heights: she’d famously gone up in a hot air balloon for a view of the fairground.  Her determination had earned her the title of official photographer of the fair, and, as David noted, her pictures had appeared in several major newspapers.  It was not a bad result for someone who’d missed out on getting a proper press pass at the beginning of the fair and had talked her way in.

“What about Till & Cook?” David went on.  “Could it affect business there?”

“I’m not sure anyone will make the connection.  Cook isn’t exactly an uncommon name.  Nor is Judith Cook, for that matter.”

Pulling out his notebook and a pencil, he jotted something down.  “So ‘Judith Cook’ is common—as a name, that is; you’re certainly not common—and has a good chance at stayin’ anonymous.  But it’s still clearly a woman, if we’re keepin’ that in mind.”  He looked up at her, pencil poised above the page and an expectant expression on his face. 

“Judith Rodrigues Cook is slightly less common—”

“I’ll say.”

“—and even J. Rodrigues Cook is an unusual combination.”

“I like it, though.  Rodrigues Cook sounds like an explorer, somebody sailin’ the high seas in search of fortune.”  His face was lit with boyish enthusiasm.  “It’s a good dime-novel name for sure.”

Gently, so as not to ruin his fun too much, she said, “Notoriety is not my purpose.  It is a good name, you’re right, but people should remember the photos, not the camera-wielding adventurer they imagine took them.”

Though it grew a little less wild, the grin remained; if anything, it seemed more appreciative than before.  “Or adventuress, in this case.  Alright, Rodrigues is out, at least for print.”  David drummed his eraser against the page.  “What about J.R. Cook?  If you’re lookin’ for run-o’-the-mill, ya can’t do much better than that.”

J.R. Cook.  It was undistinguished, and gave little away about her background, age, or gender.  It was, in a word, safe, for better or worse.  Perhaps it was cowardly not to declare herself, to prefer a veil of anonymity between her work and the world; but for the time being, for this project, she did not need the recognition.  That was not to say that she would turn down the paycheck, though.  

“J.R. it is,” she said, and stuck her hand across the table.  

David shook it heartily before jotting something in his notebook.  Then he threw back the remainder of his coffee.  “I’d better get back to the office.”  When she reached for her handbag he reached across the table again, this time to lay a hand on her arm to stop her.  “Nuh-uh,” he said; “I invited ya, so it’s my treat.”  Roman had stopped at the table again; David handed him a nickel.  “Thanks, Skitts.”

Undeterred, she slipped the waiter another nickel.  “And thank you for the prompt and attentive service.”  He snorted at her wink but secreted the tip in his pocket all the same.

“I like her,” he said to David.  Then he told her, “You’re welcome back any time ya like.”  They said goodbye and left the restaurant.

“See,” David said, as they crossed the square toward the studio, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I suppose I’ve had worse coffee.”

“Uh-huh.  And the talkin’?”

She kept looking straight ahead but was under no illusion that he didn’t see her smile.  “That could have been much worse, too.”

“I’ll take that.  Thanks for comin’ today.”

“Thanks for asking me.  My treat next time.”  It came out as a question more than the statement she’d meant it to be; whatever her inflection, he didn’t hesitate to nod.  

“Sure.  Listen, I’ve got to run, but I’ll see ya soon.”

“Have a good afternoon, Davey.” She nearly stuttered the name, and felt her cheeks flush; still, she didn’t look away or take it back—as if she could.

The smile was slow to spread across his face, but it was brilliant. “You too, Judite.”


	107. Meta: Two Facts about Pauline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by gentlegrace on Tumblr

Pauline has said before that she goes by her middle name, while hinting that she doesn’t care for her first name. That’s partly because she was named after her mother, and partly because of the name itself: Ursula. She guards that secret closely; neither Hana nor Calvin know what her first name is (and while not long ago Hana would have been the one to find out, now it’s more likely that Calvin will learn it first).

Because of her family’s German roots, her favorite fairy tales are Aschenputtel and Mother Holle.


	108. Meta: Judith

Time for a few random facts about Judith: 

  * Doesn’t look anything like a horse, for the record.  The men who called her “horse-faced” had never seen her, and were just being rude however they could to try to put Heitor off his game.  It’s true that she isn’t pretty, but she isn’t as bad-looking as she thinks.
  * Has studied painting, for its own sake and so that she can color photos well.  
  * Has already taken too many pictures of and from the Cliff Walk in Newport, and will take more without a second’s thought as soon as she gets her hands on some Autochrome plates.
  * Still really likes Portugal, despite the outcome of her most recent trip there, and would like to go back to visit eventually.  She’s already keeping an unconscious mental list of the things she’d like to photograph there, and has recently had the vague idea that it would be nice to take a friend to show the country someday.
  * Has not been into C.M. James & Co. recently but should, because if anyone could get her to embrace a more colorful wardrobe it’s Pauline.  If they met socially Judith’s first instinct would likely be to write Pauline off as vapid and shallow; she’d change her tune if she saw her at work.  Pauline would not take no for an answer when it came to Judith trying things on, and Judith would be surprised at what suited her that she previously would have dismissed out of hand.
  * Can imagine little sweeter than someone not related to her giving her flowers (though maybe not roses); but thinks even something so simple may be beyond the realm of possibility.



And a bonus:

  * Mr. Till is a Confirmed Bachelor.  When he first got to the city from Virginia he made some money by taking portraits that many people would consider scandalous, because of both their poses and their subjects.  He quit that kind of photography once he partnered with Mr. Cook; they think that Judith doesn’t know any of this, but she happened upon a misfiled box of prints once and got quite the education from its contents. 




	109. 24 (1 July 1905)

A few weeks ago they’d met to share a pretzel and discuss plans.  “He’s got to work that day,” Tumbler said with a shrug, tearing off a hunk of pretzel.  Hana had been dimly hoping that Tibby would let Roman have the day off; but if he didn’t work, he didn’t get paid.  “I’ll sell outside an’ let some o’ the regulars know it’s his birthday, so maybe they’ll give him good tips.  Then that evenin’ some o’ the fellas, Specs an’ Swifty an’ Pie an’ Blink, will want to take him out to show him a real good time.”  His all too knowing grin had made her sad—not because she was worried about the type of good time Roman might have, but because a boy of Tumbler’s age shouldn’t take delight in such debauchery.  “He should be recovered by the time ya get done with church.  Then he’s all yours.”  Roman’s itinerary outlined, he shoved the bit of pretzel in his mouth.

“You’ll have dinner with all of us Sunday night, right?”

“We’ll see,” he’d said, shrugging as if he might actually pass up a free meal, let alone one of Mama’s.  For a New York street kid, he was becoming quite a connoisseur of Slovak and Czech cuisine.

With Tumbler’s information, she’d planned the day after Roman’s birthday: home from Mass—she’d invite Roman, but did not expect him, especially not if he was going out with his friends the night before—to meet him for something to eat at Mrs. Procházka’s.  Then on to the bookstore before returning home for dinner; Mama had agreed to try making  _svíčková_  for him.  Afterward they’d probably go for a walk, and she’d give him her gift, and the one she hoped would arrive in time.  It was a gamble, that gift, one of the biggest she’d ever made.

On July second she left her parents outside their church and hurried to Roman’s building.  She still didn’t dare go inside; loitering outside was enough to make her look desperate and a little fast.  Fortunately he didn’t make her wait long, sauntering down the stairs just after she’d arrived.  Roman looked like he could do with a few hours more sleep; while he’d shaved, probably anticipating Mama’s disapproval if he hadn’t, he hadn’t bothered to try to tame his hair completely.  She couldn’t say she minded.  The afternoon before she and Pauline had popped into Tibby’s the day before to wish him happy birthday on the proper day, but now she repeated the greeting.  “ _Všetko najlepšie, moja láska_ ,” she said, kissing his cheek.

He made a noise of approval low in his throat before ducking to give her a proper kiss.  It tasted like coffee, even more so than usual; she wondered how much sleep he’d gotten.  “ _Děkuji, miláčku_.”  As he stepped back his eyes flicked over her.  “You look pretty.”

“And you look like you had a good time last night.”  Yes, there were smudges under his eyes and his clothes looked a little rumpled, but he lacked that tight, hunted look that he got when he was worried or sad.  A proper young lady would probably disapprove, demand to know where he’d been, what he’d done and with whom, and if he were out carousing every night it would be a different story.  As it was, she was simply glad he looked happy.  She threaded their fingers together and led him forward.  “Did you?”

“Sure.  You weren’t there, but other’n that it wasn’t too bad.”  He paused, remembering something, and then chuckled.  “I had a better time than Blink did, at least.”

“Did he get stabbed again?” she asked, tugging him across the street.

He mimed turning a key over his mouth.  “Can’t tell ya, sorry.  We had to promise we wouldn’t let Shiv find out.”

“I would not tell her!”   

“I know,  _krásná_ —”

“ _Krásná?_ ” she snorted.  With her free hand she reached up to wiggle her fingers in front of his face.  “Can you see alright?  Because I think maybe you are still having good time from last night.”

He grabbed her waving hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss her palm.  “ _Jsi najkrajšie žena_ ,” he all but growled; she curled her fingers to caress his cheek.  His conviction was almost enough to make her believe that she was as beautiful as he said.  After one more kiss he let her hand go.  “Anyway, I had to promise.  But don’t worry; somebody’s guaranteed to blab it at Duane Street.  Tumbler should know the whole story by dinnertime anyway, an’ he’ll tell ya.”  He smirked, certain of his friends’ loose lips.  And yet they’d assumed that she would tell Pauline, just because they were women.  She shook her head.

Even if she’d made him close his eyes, he would have known where they were headed.  That was fine; the surprises would come later.  Hana willed away the nervous churning of her stomach at the thought of the package waiting on her bed.  It was just hunger, she told herself as the familiar restaurant came into view.  Birthday or not Roman opened the door for her, and they found a little table bathed in soft light filtered through the net curtains. 

Mrs. Procházka herself bustled across the busy room to greet them; but when she arrived she took one look at him, shook her head, and spun on her heel.  She returned with a big pitcher, beaded with condensation and filled with a nearly colorless liquid.  “Drink that,” she told Roman, “and no more alcohol.”

“It was my birthday!  You want me to say no when my friends are buyin’ me drinks?”  The charming grin he gave her had scant effect. 

“If it was your birthday, then you’re old enough to know when to stop.  Especially with a girl like Hana waiting for you.”  But her stern expression softened a little before she turned away, and after she’d set their plates of sandwiches in front of them she clasped his shoulder.  “ _Všechno nejlepší, Roman_ ,” she murmured.

Hana poured their drinks as Roman started on his sandwich.  The drink had a familiar taste, botanical and light, like nectar.  It reminded her of the edge of the woods on a late spring day; she could just picture tiny ivory blooms against green foliage.  “What do you call this flower in English,  _lipa_?” she asked, tapping her glass.

He swallowed his mouthful of sandwich before taking a swig of the drink.  He wasn’t fooling her; she knew it was as much to buy him time to think as anything else.  After a moment he shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

“Oh.  Well, if you don’t know, then I guess no one does.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“Probably no one even needs to know, if you don’t know it.”

“Exactly!”  He waved half of his sandwich in the air, speaking around a mouthful.  “We live in New York City.  Who needs to know the names o’ plants?”

“Not us.  We are not deers.”  His eyes narrowed, but then he smiled.

Mrs. Procházka wouldn’t hear of them paying for their lunch, shooing them off.  Roman darted close to give her a quick peck on the cheek; though she tried to scold him she couldn’t manage to keep her laughter in check, and it followed them out onto the street.

“Now where to?” he asked, adjusting his cap over his eyes.

“You will see.”  

Fortunately the bookstore wasn’t too far away.  With only a small sign to mark it, it was a maze of little rooms, some hardly bigger than closets, and all of them filled with books.  They were separated by genre, and in some cases language: a hand-lettered sign over one room, larger than the others, read  _LATIN & GREEK_; there was a significant French collection, but also shelves of Hebrew, Italian, Russian, and even Czech.  In another part of the store was a bookcase full of dictionaries, while old dime novels were stuffed into boxes on a table. 

“How’d you find this place?”  His voice was already going distant, his eyes scanning the nearest shelf.  She wished she could say she’d found it herself—though at the moment she could say anything and he’d just nod—but David had told her about it (just before they’d had an argument about whose language’s word for bookstore made more sense).  

Roman wandered off into the shop, running a finger down spines, pausing now and then to take a book down from the shelf and flip through it.  She let him go and started her own browsing.

When their paths crossed later he was perched on a short ladder, one foot on a rung and the other planted on the floor, his head bent over a thick book.  She wished Miss Cook were there right now, to take a picture of him like this: Roman, 24 and absorbed in a book, the air around him dancing with motes of dust; Roman at peace in this quiet place.  Without a camera to freeze the image, she studied him, memorizing the way his sleeves were rolled up, the little wave to his hair, the huff of a chuckle as something he read amused him.  She stood there, wrapped up in him as he was in the book, until a muffled shout outside broke his concentration.  His head jerked toward the front of the shop; when it slowly swiveled back he caught sight of her and gave a quizzical smile. 

Hana walked forward to stand in front of him.  The leg he had bent slipped down to the floor, letting her move closer, to lean into him.  She stroked his face, brow to cheek to chin, before placing a soft kiss on his lips.  It was meant to be one short kiss, but as always, one didn’t seem enough; so she tilted her head and kissed him again, his mouth pliant and unhurried under hers. 

But it wouldn’t do to get thrown out of the stop, even though it seemed empty, so she pulled back.  His breathless voice against her ear made her shiver.  “When you kiss me like that, it feels like we got all the time in the world.  That’s all I want, is all the time in the world with you.”

That was all she wanted to give him, too.  One day they would have it; at least she prayed and hoped they would.  For the time being, she pressed a kiss to his temple, then left him to his reading. 

Later still, when he was ready to go, he found her flipping through a book of fairy tales.  He dropped his chin onto her shoulder, sharp in the hollow between her bones, his chest warm against her back.  She reached the end of the book and slid it into place on the shelf; he stepped back to give her room to turn.  “Did you see anything you want?” she asked.  There was a little money in her purse—only a bit, but maybe the shopkeeper would bargain with her if there was anything Roman had his heart set on.

“Just you.”  He took her hand.  They wound their way through the bookcases, his arm stretched behind to clasp hers as he led the way through the narrow aisles.  At the door he paused to look over his shoulder, past her, back into the shop; a wistful look slipped across his face.  Then one corner of his mouth lifted just before he pulled open the door. 

Outside the world rushed back to speed, bright and warm and noisy.  They stood under the shade of the awning, squinting until their eyes adjusted to the daylight.  Still, he stood there, glancing now and then at the shop window, longer than she expected him to.  Then he stared hard down the street for a moment.  She said nothing, simply waited for him to be ready, kept his hand safe in hers. 

Eventually he looked down at her, eyes catching hers for only a second before skipping shyly away.  “Maybe,” he suggested, “for my next birthday we can go to Máša and Joe’s bookstore.”

That in a year’s time she might be his wife, free to go with him to Iowa or Pittsburgh or Valhalla or anywhere else in the world they wanted, made her knees weak.  She squeezed his hand, nodding too eagerly.  “I would like that.”

They took their time making their way home, strolling the streets as so many other couples were on Sunday afternoon.  At her building he went down the hall to the bathroom while she let herself into the apartment.  Tumbler was already there, reluctantly and somewhat haphazardly setting the table as Mama called directions from the kitchen and Tatko filled glasses.  She slipped her shoes off and joined them.  When Roman got back his hair had been combed and his face washed.

Mama offered her best wishes with a handshake and a kiss for each cheek; Tatko’s less formal greeting was a clasp to the shoulder that led Roman to his shot of  _slivovica._ When both men had picked up their glasses a third remained on the table, filled a mere thimble’s worth.  Without need for encouragement Tumbler raised it to Roman.  “ _Na zdravie_ ,” he said, with the clear enunciation of someone who’d been practicing.  Roman blinked, then grinned.

“Same to ya,” he said, touching their glasses together.  To Tatko he said “ _Na zdraví_ ,” and they drank.

Over dinner they chatted, about what they’d done that day and what was happening in the building.  When Tumbler mentioned something in the day’s paper Mama said, “I want you to bring that Gussie here.”  It seemed they’d discussed this before.

“Aw, why?” Tumbler groaned.  “She’s got a family.  She don’t need you feedin’ her, too.”  He stabbed at a slice of dumpling, frowning into his plate.  Then, defiantly, he shoved the  _knedľa_  into his mouth.

Ever placid Mama remarked, “If you did not talk about her so much, I would not be curious.”

He made a strangled noise and swallowed hastily.  “Like it’s my fault she’s always hangin’ around me?!”

“Now ya know how I felt,” Roman said, “havin’ to deal with someone younger an’ cuter snakin’ my customers.”  He winked when Tumbler turned his glare at him.  The younger boy muttered something under his breath, but didn’t argue further.

“So you will bring her,” Mama said, and that was that.

The boys had two helpings each of  _svíčková_  and  _knedľa_ , and their praise for Mama’s cooking was unstinting.  When Mama had cleared away the scant leftovers Hana brought out the small cake she’d made.  It was chocolate, though the recipe, from a cookbook Mrs. Hermann had lent her, called it a “devil’s cake.”  She cut the slices, thick ones for Roman and Tumbler, smaller ones for Tatko and Mama, and a tiny one for herself; she savored Roman’s expressions as he ate as much as she did the cake itself.

She and Mama carried the empty plates into the kitchen and tidied up as the men talked.  Before too long, though, Mama dried her hands and left the kitchen, Hana trailing after her.

“We will walk Andy downstairs,” Mama announced.  He squinted up sideways at her, seeming about to protest; but she took hold of his shoulder and steered him firmly toward the door, Tatko following after them.  

“Ya know,” Roman said as the door closed, “sometimes I don’t mind that your ma likes him better.”  He grinned and pulled her toward him until her hips bumped gently against his.  When she let out a gasp he seized the opportunity to kiss her deeply.  She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss; and in spite of her previous reaction she pressed against him shamelessly.

A moment later she pulled away to ask, “Don’t you want your presents?”

He raised an eyebrow.  “This isn’t it?”  She laughed, breathlessly, and wriggled free of his embrace.  With a gusty sigh of disappointment he threw himself onto the settee, legs splayed in front of him.  She pulled her gift from the cabinet where she’d hidden it and handed it to him.

He unwrapped the little rectangle and removed the lid from the cardboard.  A blue-barreled fountain pen lay inside.  The one he’d had was secondhand—she thought he’d found it somewhere—and was running dry.  With a new pen he could write letters to his siblings, and anything else he might want to write.  She’d gone to see Calvin to find it, fortunately catching him when he had no other customers; he’d helped her find the nicest pen she could afford.  Then he’d brought out one that was just outside her price range—until he offered to buy it using his employee discount, telling her she could pay him back.  He’d grown flustered as she stared at him admiringly.  “You are a good friend, Calvin,” she’d said.  “We are lucky to have you.”

He’d fussed with the wrapping on the package, his cheeks the faintest pink at the praise.  “I’m happy to help.  He’s a good guy, an’ he deserves to have a good birthday.  This’ll be his best one yet,” he’d said, and that had been her cue to blush.

Roman unscrewed the cap and peered at the pristine nib.  “Thank you,  _miláčku_ ,” he said.  He drew loops on the wrapping until the ink started flowing; then he wrote something brief on one corner, raised it to his lips to blow on it, and carefully tore the corner free and handed it to her.  The words he’d scrawled,  _RK miluje HK,_  wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, but they meant the world to her.  He recapped the pen and set it aside before pulling her close, his hands lingering on her hips.  The face he tipped up to her was relaxed and joyful and full of an adoration she knew she didn’t deserve.  She hoped he still felt that way in a moment; for now she leaned down to kiss him, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, smiling a little at the way his hands tightened on her hips, the way he let out a quiet purr.  When he made as if to tug her onto his lap, though, she shook her head and backed away.

The package still waiting on her bed had arrived wrapped in thick brown paper, though one corner had torn enough to reveal a finer blue-patterned paper covering the actual gift.  After wrestling with the idea she had decided to remove the outer paper and present it to Roman in the blue wrapping; she kept the brown paper, though, carefully folded in case he wanted it.  When she’d unwrapped it she’d also found a folded sheet of stationery with her name on it.  The note, in Máša’s pretty script, thanked her for letting them know about Roman’s birthday, and invited her to write again if she liked.  Hana had been pleased by it, brief though the missive was.

Writing the letter had been less nerve-wracking than she’d thought it would be.  For Roman she would do anything, especially something so simple as writing a letter to his siblings in Iowa.  But now, as she returned to stand before the settee with their present behind her back, she almost shook with nerves, hoping desperately that she hadn’t overstepped her bounds.

“I hope very much that this present makes you happy.”  With that she handed it to him.

“Ya know that anythin’ you give me makes me happy,” he said, curiosity shining in his eyes.

Even wrapped it was obviously a book, though she didn’t know what it was, though, or who’d written it, or what it was about.  He undid the pale blue string and loosened the paper, revealing not only the grey cloth cover of a book but a letter as well.  At his inquiring glance she nodded encouragement, hands laced in front of her.

“‘Dear Roman,’” he read aloud, “‘Happy birthday!   _Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám_.  When Hana wrote and asked us to send a book we thought you’d like, it sparked a great debate.’”  His head shot up and he stared at her, dumbfounded; she worried her bottom lip with her teeth until he reached out for her, tugging her closer by the skirt because it was all he could reach, then grasping her hand and pulling her down to sit next to him.  He kept hold of her hand, cleared his throat, and continued reading aloud.  The letter described how Joe and Máša had argued about what book would make a better gift, how Miles had joked about sending something practical like an almanac.  They’d finally decided to send two books, a novel and something factual; as to the former, Joe’s choice of  _The Sea-Wolf_  had won out over Máša’s pick,  _The Tavern Knight_  by Rafael Sabatini.  Miles had suggested the second book—not an almanac after all, but Winston Churchill’s account of his experiences in the Boer War.  According to the letter, Miles had thought that it might be of interest to Roman since the war had been in the news so much a few years ago.

“‘PS,’” he read, “‘Hana sounds like a very kind young lady.  We’re happy you have someone like her who cares for you.’”  He dropped the letter into his lap and looked at her, eyes soft and warm.  “I am too.”

“You don’t mind?  That I wrote to them?  I was worried that you might be angry.”

“I’m surprised,” he admitted.  “But how could I be angry when ya did somethin’ that nice for me?”

Before she’d written she’d asked herself if she would be angry if Roman had written to Jozef.  Of course she wouldn’t; but their situations were not exactly the same.  She’d had so much more time with Jozef than Roman had had with his siblings.  “They are your family.  Not mine.  I did not want you to think…”  The words wouldn’t come right, and the last thing she wanted to do was ruin his birthday. 

He was waiting, as patiently as he could.  She touched his cheek, just her fingertips against his skin.  His tongue wet his lips; she watched his mouth and then raised her eyes to his again, leaning closer.  

“I will not get between you and them,” she promised.  “No one will take them away from you again.”  She tried to take her hand back, to fold it with the other in her lap, but he wouldn’t let it go.  

He shook his head.  “’Course not.  Hana,  _miláčku_ , you’ve never taken anythin’ from me that I wasn’t ready an’ willin’ to give ya, includin’ my heart.”  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, then pressed it to his chest.  “I want ya to know my family, an’ I want them to love you.  Because you’re…”  He paused, gulping, and his eyes dropped away from hers.  His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand.  “You’re the only person who’d do somethin’ like this for me, an’ the only girl I love.”  He looked up through his lashes at her, and his lips twitched up until a smile finally blossomed on his lips, lighting up his face.  She couldn’t help returning that smile, or leaning in to kiss it softly.

“Now’s when ya say that I’m the only man you love,” he murmured.

“The only man I will ever love.”  She thought his eyes couldn’t get any brighter but they did, and his smile wider, and he pulled her into his arms and held her tight, against his heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> svíčková = a Czech dish of beef in a vegetable cream sauce, served with dumplings (though not knedľa, which are a different kind of dumplings; Mama drew the line at making weird Czech dumplings instead of good old Slovak ones)
> 
> Všetko najlepšie, moja láska = All the best, my love
> 
> Děkuji, miláčku = Thank you, sweetheart
> 
> krásná = beautiful
> 
> Jsi najkrajšie žena = You are the most beautiful woman
> 
> lipa = linden. Slovaks will make syrups from sugar and herbs and flowers, like mint and linden, and then use them to flavor water. Bottled waters are also available in these botanical flavors; here are the varieties that the Rajec brand sells.
> 
> Na zdravie / Na zdraví = Cheers (literally “to health”)
> 
> RK miluje HK = RK loves HK
> 
> Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám = All the best on your birthday (in Czech)
> 
> The Sea-Wolf is by Jack London. Churchill’s book From London to Ladysmith via Pretoria, published in 1900, talks about his experiences during the Boer War in South Africa. He was captured while working as a war correspondent and escaped from prison, later returning to the conflict to continue working.


	110. Whitman (5 July 1905)

Judith rushed out of the workroom, hardly looking up as she headed toward the stairs.  Somehow they’d run out of straight pins in the studio’s sewing kit, and Miss Wallace was up there holding her borrowed dress on after a seam had spilt.  Yet she still insisted on going on with the sitting—so long as they could pin the dress in place for as long as it took to snap the photo—because, she said, the friend from whom she’d borrowed the dress would never let her borrow another one, and hers were so much nicer than Miss Wallace’s.  Busy grumbling against vanity, a packet of pins in hand, Judith only glanced up when she heard David call, “Judith, hey!”

“Oh, David.  Hello.”  Her footsteps slowed but did not stop completely. 

“I was just around the corner so I thought I’d drop by.  Do you have time for coffee?” he asked hopefully.

She shook her head.  “A client is waiting upstairs.  I’m sorry.”  It would be rude to leave it at that, and yet she had to return to Miss Wallace and her sartorial mishap.  Judith shifted her weight toward the stairs.

“Go on up, Judith,” said Mr. Till, sitting at the desk, “I’ll see to David.”  That was good; Mr. Till was always friendly, sometimes a little too much so, and David would leave feeling that his stop hadn’t been a waste.  She nodded, smiled vaguely at both of them, and climbed the stairs.  It was only when she was halfway through the sitting that the possibilities behind his words caught up to her, and she felt the blood drain from her face. 

While it was no surprise that David was gone by the time she descended, it was still a disappointment.  Mr. Till’s absence, on the other hand, was downright suspicious.  Mother sat at the desk, taking down information from someone on the other end of the telephone; when she hung up Judith pounced.  “Where’s Mr. Till?”

“Gone to lunch.”

“To lunch?”  Her voice sounded unnaturally high.  “When?”

Mother stared as if she’d grown a second head.  (That was a good idea, actually, two heads on one body.  She’d have to try that.  Tumbler and Les would be thrilled to provide the heads.)  “Not five minutes ago.  Are you alright, dear?”

Her fears were suddenly compounded.  It was bad enough that Mr. Till had had a coffee break’s worth of time to reveal embarrassing tidbits about her; what he could say in a lunchtime could ruin her.  “Was he alone?”

“Yes.  Should he not have been?”  She cocked her head.  “Judith, you’re flushed.  Do you need to sit down for a few minutes?”

“Thank you, Mother, but no.  I’m fine.”  Whether or not Mr. Till would be when she caught up to him was another matter. 

Though she couldn’t say for sure that he was avoiding her, Judith didn’t see Mr. Till for the rest of the day, and most of the next, either.  It was not long enough to forget her worries, only to realize that they were foolish, that Mr. Till would not give away her secrets.  But he could still embarrass her plenty, and for her sanity’s sake she had to know what he’d said. 

When she cornered him and told him so he rolled his eyes.  “He was here all of ten minutes, Judith.  We drank some tea and chatted.”

“That’s what concerns me.  About what did you chat, pray tell?”

“Nothin’ that you’d be interested in.”  He gave her a saccharine smile.  It was infuriating.  “He seems very…”

During the pause that ensued, she tried to predict what he might say.  Nice?  No, that wouldn’t be anyone’s first impression of David.  He was kind enough, certainly, but “nice” was too vague and insipid for him.  Smart?  She supposed that depended on what they’d talked about.  If he held his tongue he’d come across as less intelligent but more nice.  Handsome?  She wasn’t sure Mr. Till would think that, and was even less sure he’d say it—unless he wanted to needle her.  

“…well, you know,” he concluded.  Judith’s eyes widened; then she blinked.

“No, actually, I don’t know what you think.”

“Oh.”  Mr. Till smiled mildly and shrugged.  “I just meant that you’ve spent so much time with him, you know what he’s like.”

She hadn’t spent that much time with him, had she?  Mr. Till was watching her, wearing a subtle version of the inviting expression that led matrons to trust him so.  It wouldn’t work on her.  She wouldn’t be tricked into filling in the blanks, revealing what she thought of David.  Her eyes narrowed.  The way his smile widened she could tell he knew he’d been caught, though his southern charm did not flag.

“Maybe you can’t tell what I think about him,” he said, “but I can tell what you’re thinkin’ right now.”

Through gritted teeth she said, “I bet you can.”  He laughed, dared to pat her shoulder, and walked away. 

* * *

“Which view do you think is best?”

Les didn’t hesitate to point off toward the south.  “That way.  An’ look from right here.”  He led the way to the edge of the roof and gestured again.  “See how the sun catches that skylight over there, an’ the laundry between the buildin’s?  I know it’s just clothes, but I think it looks nice.”

“Set up the tripod, then.”  She’d let him carry it up the fire escape to the roof, while she toted the camera.  Now she undid the buttons at her wrists and rolled up the sleeves of her shirtwaist.  Her jacket, light as it was, hadn’t made the ascent with them, instead remaining downstairs along with her hat and purse.  She wished she could take off her boots, too, but that would be too much.  Not that she was worried about Les seeing her ankles; but it was a public place, after all, and outdoors at that, and she wasn’t a child who could run barefoot.

They’d been cleaning plates a few days ago when he mentioned that the view from his building’s roof might be worth photographing.  This evening he had stopped by the studio and walked her to his home, tripod slung over one shoulder while she carried the camera in a knapsack.  On the way she had bought them each a bag of peanuts to snack on; that way, if Mrs. or Mr. Jacobs asked if she’d eaten, she would truthfully be able to say she had.  No one else had been home when they’d arrived and passed through a window and up the fire escape to their present perch.

Now she handed him the camera, watching closely as he mounted it on the tripod.  She wasn’t worried; he had learned well, and was diligent with the gear, but it was her responsibility all the same, so she kept an eye on it.  At the glance over his shoulder she gave a nod; he peered through the viewfinder, then stood aside to let her take a look.  “Good,” she said, nodding.  “Now try adjusting the focus.  Pick another point and make sure it’s sharp and clear.”

They tinkered with the composition for a while, moving the tripod inches left and right, raising the camera and lowering it again.  When he was sure he had a picture he liked, and she was satisfied that it would turn out well enough, he pushed the shutter.  Then she watched him change the plate for the one spare she’d brought, and he watched her choose a subject.  She chose the water tower on the roof, with rays of afternoon sunlight slicing past its struts.  It would be a study in contrast, she told Les, less about details than about forms and shapes.

With both plates used they packed up the camera and folded the tripod.  Les plopped himself down on the wall that ran around the roof; Judith followed more cautiously, peering over the side to see the little ledge below.  It was some comfort, so she sat beside him, swinging her legs over the side.

Almost as soon as she’d situated herself he popped up.  “I ought to check if Dave’s home yet,” he said, apropos of nothing; perhaps that was something siblings did, or brothers, or just these brothers.  “Would you mind if I went an’ looked?”

“No, that’s fine.”  He sent her a smile and scampered over to the ladder.  It barely creaked as he descended.

She wasn’t left alone with her thoughts for long, because a few minutes later a curlier head appeared at the top of the ladder.  Seeing her David smiled and called, “Hey, Cooky.”  

Annoyance surged in her.  It was mostly at a Mr. Till, for revealing the nickname, but a bit at David, too, for using it so freely when it wasn’t his to use.  “Don’t you dare let anyone else hear that,” she hissed, head snapping around to see if anyone had.  Les was nowhere in sight, and there was no one else there who knew her; all the same, she didn’t want it to get out.

He dropped down next to her, seemingly unconcerned about the distance to the street below.  “Mr. Till already made me swear I wouldn’t, soon as he let it slip.  ’Sides, I think I can do better.”

His promise and Mr. Till’s insistence were reassuring, and cooled her temper.  “Really?  Do tell.”

“I didn’t mean right this second,” he dodged.  “These things take time.”

Les had told her the story already, so asking the question was more to prove a point—and to dig at him, she wouldn’t deny it—than to satisfy any curiosity.  “How long did it take before someone came up with the Walking Mouth?”

He shot her a look, all pursed lips and lowered brows, that she couldn’t help laugh at.  The last vestiges of her annoyance dissipated.  “About a dozen words.”

“Well, I’m in absolutely no rush, so feel free to take your time.”  She picked what appeared to be a bit of straw from her skirt and swallowed.  “Apart from revealing that rather childish endearment, what else did Mr. Till have to say?”  To her ears it sounded shaky, not as cool and collected as she hoped.

“Not a whole lot.  He offered tea an’ I thought it’d be hot tea with a little honey, like my ma makes, but instead it was cold an’ the sweetest thing I’ve ever drunk.”  He pulled a face.

“Don’t ya like sugar?” she drawled in imitation of Mr. Till’s accent.

“I think a little sweetness goes a long way.”  He paused; a frown creased his forehead briefly before he shook his head and went on.  “Anyway, I choked it down, and we talked about baseball for a few minutes before I had to leave.”

“Baseball?”  The reprobate hadn’t been lying when he’d said it was nothing she’d be interested in.  Mr. Till enjoyed the game, had even played on his college team, and devoured the sports section of the newspaper before any other.

“He wanted to know if I ever got to cover any o’ the games for the paper.  I think he was hopin’ I might get him in for free.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Yeah, he was disappointed when I said I had to pay like everybody else.  Les has been buggin’ me to go to a game soon, though.  You should come with us.”  His shoulder knocked hers.

“Me?  At a baseball game?”  She snorted— _like a horse_ , noted a snide voice in the back of her head, threatening to dampen her good mood.  She shook her head and with slightly less cheer than before asked, “Honestly, Davey, can you imagine that?”  What did one wear to a baseball game, anyway?  Not that she planned on attending one to find out.

“Sure.”  He grinned, and she thought for a second that his eyes traveled over her, head to toe.  Surely that was just a trick of the light.  “I’ve got an excellent imagination.”

She ignored the goosebumps that ran up her forearms, crossing them over her stomach.  “No, you don’t.  You’ve got no imagination.  What you have is observational skills and a good memory.”  When he opened his mouth to protest she cut him off, rather more forcefully than she intended.  “Am I wrong?”

Now he turned to look at her.  “I’ve been told,” he said slowly, “that it’s never in my best interests to tell a woman she’s wrong.”  At first glance his expression was serious, but further inspection revealed the corners of his mouth rising, though he fought to keep from smiling outright.  She took a quiet breath and looked away.

“That’s good advice,” she replied, staring forward.  “You’d do well to remember it.”

He chuckled.  “I’ll try.  But somethin’ tells me you’ll remind me if I forget.”

There was a sky up here above the streets.  In the near distance it was pierced, here by a steeple and there by a water tower.  Taller office buildings skulked against the horizon; on the rooftops around them pennants of laundry fluttered in the breeze.  “I love this view,” she murmured. 

“It’s not bad for the price.”  He leaned back on his hands.

For a few minutes they sat in silence, or what passed for silence in New York City.  They weren’t alone on the roof, but it seemed to her that there was no one else nearby, nothing that could interrupt them.  She wanted to ask him something—no topic in particular pressed upon her mind; she simply wanted to hear him speak, to know him better, maybe to hear him laugh again—but at the same time was loath to break the quiet companionship between them, especially if he was enjoying it, which she had no way of knowing.  To clear her head she tilted her head back and considered the sky.  

There were dozens of colors there, a handful of shades of blue smudged with clouds in grey and pale yellow, apricot, silver and lavender.  Would the Lumières’ process be able to capture such subtlety?  Or was a sky like this better suited to watercolor or oil?  Could she ever hope to take a photograph that satisfied her desire to hold on to this moment?

It was later than it looked.  The light was just beginning to ebb; it smoothed the city’s rough edges, made everything look smoother, softer.  The illusion was dangerous, not least of all to her heart.  “I’d better go.”

David stood and dusted his trousers, then offered her a hand.  After a moment’s hesitation she took it.  He hauled her up in a way that was neither romantic nor graceful; the movement made her feel as ethereal as a sack of potatoes.  She handed the tripod to David and asked him if he wouldn’t mind carrying it downstairs.  Of course he agreed and clambered onto the metal ladder, still warm to the touch.  At their window he climbed in first, setting his burden to one side and then taking the camera that she handed in.  There was no especially ladylike way to climb through a window, she’d learned earlier, and imagined writing to an etiquette expert:  _Dear madam, what is the proper way to enter a home via the fire escape?_   The reply came to her immediately:  _Why, of course one ought to sit on the windowsill and swing one’s limbs through both at once!  Otherwise one would have to risk allowing one’s ankles to be seen.  Furthermore, stepping through one foot at a time requires one to assume a most unattractive stoop._

She climbed in the same way David had.

Les’ head popped out of the kitchen as she straightened her skirt.  “Sorry, Judith,” he called, “Mama made me stay here an’ wash dishes.”  He grimaced in disgust.

“It was your turn,” their mother’s voice said.  Her head appeared next to Les’, smiling warmly, and she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.  “Hello, Judith.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Jacobs.”  

“Are you going already?”

“Yes, ma’am, I have to get home.”

“It is nice to see you again, even for this short time.  Next time you will have to stay longer.”

“I will.  Thank you.”  Mother and son withdrew into the kitchen again.

David watched her pin her hat on and roll down her sleeves, fastening them too quickly.  Then, with regret, she pulled on her jacket and buttoned it.  

“Are ya cold?” he asked, expression quizzical.  “You should’ve said earlier.  We didn’t have to stay out there if you were uncomfortable.”

“It was lovely.”  She smiled, a wave of melancholy washing through her.  She missed it up there already.  “It’s the streets one needs to worry about.  It’s safer to be fully clothed, you see, especially in the evening.”

For an instant the confusion remained on his face; then it cleared and his face went solemn and hard.  He nodded once.  Voice subdued and almost tight he asked, “Can I help ya get your things home?”

She handed him the tripod for the second time in as many minutes.

Les and Mrs. Jacobs echoed her goodbye, with the latter reminding David not to stay out too late.  Safely out of sight he rolled his eyes and called that he’d be back soon. 

On the way he was alert, assessing the people who passed them, peeking into darkened doorways.  They didn’t speak much as they walked, the quiet now feeling more formal, more distant than it had before.  A few blocks from her building she couldn’t take it anymore, and her nerves convinced her to say the stupidest thing possible.  “You’ve been rather quiet, for someone called the Walking Mouth.”  It was all she could do not to groan as soon as the words left her lips.

“It’s rare, but sometimes I do think before I talk.”  She raised her eyebrows and nodded, hoping that would be enough to encourage him to go on.  He cut a glance at her, and she was surprised to see a wash of pink in his cheeks.  “It’s dumb,” he demurred. 

“I doubt that, if you’ve been thinking this hard about it for the last five blocks.”

“It’s just a line of poetry that’s stuck in my head.  You know how part of a song’ll keep repeating itself, over an’ over?  It’s like that.  But I don’t want ya to think I’m the type o’ guy who quotes poetry to, to…impress people.”

“On my honor,” she said, raising her right hand, “I won’t be impressed.”  It was too far, she saw when his mouth screwed shut.  Instinct had her reaching out to touch his arm, to apologize without having to say a word, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the gap and make contact.  He noticed, though, and his glare subsided.

“And if it was just regular poetry that’d be one thing, but it’s Walt Whitman.”  His voice dropped at the name, and she saw him watching her to assess her reaction. 

Mr. Till had a book of Whitman’s works, called  _Leaves of Grass_.  She hadn’t read it, but knew that half a century after its publication some people still considered it too vulgar, too frank about intimacy, to be acceptable to society.  Judith’s stomach twisted at what it might mean for David to have read it.  With some difficulty she swallowed, then gasped in mock offense.  “Think of my reputation, Mr. Jacobs.  That type of doggerel is simply too scandalous for polite company.”  When he grinned, eyes dancing, she understood.  “That’s why you’ve read it.”  With the realization her strange fear subsided.  She wondered at that: she didn’t like Mr. Till any less for his inclinations, so why had the idea that David might share them bothered her? 

“Had to know what all the fuss is about.  He goes on an’ on about stuff—my editor would tear him apart—and he can be, um, forthright with some o’ his imagery.”  It was no trick of the light that his face turned a deeper pink.  “But he had some interestin’ things to say.”

“Such as?”

He stopped—they were outside her building now—and looked her in the eye.  “Such as, ‘I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough.’”

When she was young and had gotten a new dress she’d liked to spin around to see how well the skirt flared out.  One summer she’d gotten a skirt made of such a light, billowy fabric that it seemed to float in midair around her waist after she’d stopped spinning.  His words ringing in her ears—his words and his stare, seeing her so clearly even as twilight approached—made her feel the same way: off-balance and unsteady, stomach wobbling in a pleasurable way, with something improbably fragile and evanescent seeming to surround her. 

He scratched his temple, then adjusted his cap; his eyes were on the brickwork behind her.  “I remembered that line while we were sittin’ up there.  Haven’t thought about that poem in a while, but it looks like I still remember at least some of it.”  He glanced at her with an expression that was not quite a smile, not quite shy.

To be someone David liked was enough for her, for now.

Her every movement felt abrupt as she opened the door, climbed the stairs, stopped outside their apartment.  As she reclaimed the tripod and thanked him she couldn’t fail to notice that he was looking around, taking in how much nicer her building was than his.  It was her turn to say something now, something profound and consequential; nothing came to mind, though, nothing but a memory of the sky above his roof.

“David?” she said at last.  His attention snapped back to her; she felt it like sunlight on her face. 

“Yeah?”

“Will we go see the Giants or the Highlanders play?”

His face froze, then broke into a wide smile.  “Do you have a preference?”  There was a clear teasing note in his voice.  Her heart lightened.

“The Giants,” she decided; “Mr. Till is for the Highlanders, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of cheering for the same team.”

“The Giants it is.  I’ll find out when their next couple o’ games are an’ let you know?”

She nodded. For a moment she toyed with the idea of inviting him in, offering coffee or a cookie before he left; but having him in her home, introducing him to her parents, would be too much—and too little, after the roof and Walt Whitman.  “Good night, Davey.  Get home safely.”

“Night.  See ya soon.”  She watched him go, listened to him whistling as he went down the stairs, stood waiting until she heard the door downstairs shut.   _I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough_ , she thought, wrapping the words around her heart, daring herself to believe them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: PSSSST! DAVEY! JUST SO YA KNOW, ONCE YA GET THROUGH PERCEIVIN’ THAT YOU LIKE MISS COOK, YOUR ROOFTOP’S A GOOD SPOT FOR SMOOCHIN’!
> 
> Just make sure Les ain’t spyin’ if ya do.
> 
> Your pal,
> 
> JACK.


	111. The Metropolitan (10 July 1905)

She needed time alone.  Had she said this aloud to anyone they might have presumed that she wanted solitude in order to think; the truth was quite the opposite.  She would not seek out solitude, and had no desire to search her mind or heart or any other organ.  Though she doubted they’d allow it anyway, she wasn’t about to lug her equipment all the way up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; for today her sketchbook and pencil would have to do.  It wouldn’t occupy her mind as completely as looking through the camera lens would, but her sketchbook was lighter, and hadn’t gotten a good airing of late.

This part of Fifth Avenue was taking its time to wake.  No one who lived in the neighborhood had to be up early on a Sunday morning; the stock markets were closed, the shops wouldn’t open until later, and even the churches convened at a fashionable hour.  Cool air rose from the steps leading up the museum’s entrance.  Judith was by no means alone as she ascended; still she knew that the museum would not be crowded until later, as visitors sought refuge from the afternoon heat.  For now she would have elbow room to sketch, and relative quiet in which to do it.

The European paintings were popular, and for good reason; one could not help but admire the skill needed to create the illusion that layers of paint were really breathing flesh, succulent fruits, costly silks and lace.  The boards and canvases were lavish, the colors rich and vibrant still.  She passed scores of slender Madonnas, saints she could not name, suffering Christs.  It was, she thought, safe to assume that Tumbler had never been here, hadn’t seen the gruesome ends with which the martyrs met: their rolling-eyed heads on silver platters, their writhing bodies pierced with arrows or broken on wheels; if he had he would have deemed her too stingy in her application of blood, too staid in her depiction of torture.

To be fair, the paintings were not all on Christian themes.  There were generals, jars of flowers, horses, Greek gods, tumultuous seas, ruins, and rich ladies; Moses was not absent, here being lifted from the basket amongst the reeds, there lifting the stone tablets to the Israelites.  But admire the paintings though she did she didn’t linger with them, instead making her way to the rooms filled with glass cases of ancient artifacts. 

From a purely practical standpoint the pots and beakers and statuettes were easier to sketch than an oil or watercolor.  From an intensely personal one, the paintings all too easily reminded her that she was not beautiful, or wealthy, or righteous, that she did not inspire the kind of devotion and attention that produced that kind of art.  Small wonder, then, that she preferred to spend her time with the detritus of ages past: the bulbous vessels, their glass grey-flecked or green or iridescent with the alchemy of age, that had somehow survived the millennia; the humble pieces of pottery, little wedge-shaped oil lamps and tiny votive animals, statues chiseled from marble or cast in bronze.  Some of the old faces even had a nose like hers.

So she drifted through the rooms, pausing when something caught her eye.  She drew miniature bulls and copied inscriptions incised into clay, filling pages with loose, dark lines of graphite.  That was one advantage the pencil had over the camera: it granted the user the luxury of mistakes, of uncertainty, of correction.  And sketchbooks were much cheaper than glass plates.

The pencil scraped and scratched across the paper; muted footsteps and murmured conversations flowed around her.  She finished a sarcophagus, its sides adorned with leafy garlands, before moving on to the bust of a young man—some minor emperor or other.  At some other time she would have, as she outlined his profile, imagined a life for him, given him friends and work and a villa surrounded by pines; now that was too treacherous, too maudlin, so she focused on drawing his eye (that had been brown, no doubt, in life). 

She paused to squint at her sketch.  The Romans did love their curly-haired heroes, didn’t they?  She stared down at the whorls she’d rendered and found the sketch less faithful than she’d intended.  Something perilously close to a thought skirted the edges of her mind; she flipped the page and left the statue behind.

Her feet slowed before a case of rings, though not because she wanted to draw them.  Before she could stop herself she remembered that she still had a ring he’d given her, squirreled away in the back of a drawer in her room.  Somewhere between being questioned by the police and arriving in Manhattan she’d wrenched it off, with a distant thought that she probably ought to toss it in the river.  But she hadn’t been able to muster the will to throw it, and besides, she had grown fond of it—not because Heitor had given it to her but as an object in itself, its simple twist of silver strands not so different from some of the rings she saw on display now.  Had it been gold perhaps she would have sold it and put the money toward equipment; she couldn’t imagine it was worth much, though.  Maybe…maybe she could unearth it, as these rings had been brought forth from the depths, and wear it again, on her right hand this time.  Maybe it had lost its power to hurt her.

She looked down at her own hands, unadorned save for a smudge of graphite.  The anger she expected over such a sentimental reaction did not materialize; nor was she ashamed, as she’d felt so many times before.  Her hands were bare, but not empty.  It was a reflex to reassure herself that she would rather have them like that than the other way around; but as she did so she realized with a shock that she believed it, fiercely.  Her fingers tightened around her sketchbook and she straightened her shoulders.  That seemed easier now, as if some weight had fallen away from them.  Bare, she thought with satisfaction, but not empty; plain, but replete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is possible, though laborious, to search the Met’s catalog and see what items it owned in 1905. Some of the items described above are inspired by actual things they owned then.


	112. Shopping (14 July 1905)

The chime of the bell heralded a customer entering the shop.  Looking to the door Pauline smoothed her hands over her already-neat skirt; she was pleasantly surprised to see Miss Cook.  As Miss Cook gazed around the room Pauline strode forward, thankful that Letty was busy with another customer.  Proud of her beauty, frustrated by her penury, and resentful of anyone who dared to be well-off yet homely, as if wealth and beauty were somehow linked, Letty would have plenty to say about Miss Cook.  

To start she would judge her outfit austere, well-made though it was, and note that the colors perhaps made Miss Cook look older than she was.  Such observations were necessary, even unavoidable, for the clerks to make, and could be conveyed to the customer gently, with tact and kindness.  Pauline had to believe that Letty was capable of acting that way, though she hadn’t seen much evidence of it.  She wasn’t willing to risk Miss Cook’s feelings to the possible existence of Letty’s better angels, especially since Letty would find it so easy to mock her looks.  Though the most cutting remarks were usually saved for the stockroom, where Pauline, no saint herself, had laughed over more than one outfit a customer came in wearing, Letty would hardly be able to contain herself when it came to Miss Cook’s height, or the bump at the bridge of her nose, or the way her hair frizzed at her temples.  Even if she managed not to make some snide comment under her breath, her expression—of delight mixed with disdain—would be unmistakable.  Pauline was more than happy to spare an acquaintance that. 

The older woman seemed uncomfortable, even skittish, and Pauline suspected she would take any excuse to bolt; she’d seen it time and again, though usually with younger customers who were not so keen on shopping with their mothers.  So she tempered her enthusiasm and moved toward her calmly, wearing a warm, genuine smile.  “Miss Cook,” she said, extending a hand.  “Pauline Hermann.  It’s nice to see you again.”

Recognition and relief lightened her countenance.  “Yes.  You as well, Miss Hermann.  I didn’t know you worked here.”  Again she looked around, as if the mannequins might mount an attack at any moment.

“Pauline will do, and yes, I’ve been here a few years.  What can I help you with today?”  She folded her hands together in front of her and waited, a pleasant, patient slip of a smile fixed on her face.

“I need something suitable for a baseball game,” she confessed.  By her expression, she couldn’t quite believe it herself.  “And I don’t have the first clue what that would be.”  Pauline couldn’t help but blink; otherwise she did not betray her surprise.  Handkerchiefs, she’d expected, or gloves, something practical that didn’t warrant an excursion to a store farther uptown.  Baseball hadn’t occurred to her.

Then again, Andy had said that his friend Les had told him that he and his brother David and someone named Judith were planning to attend a ballgame.  (Anyone who called women terrible gossips had never been privy to the conversations of newsboys.)  Calvin and Roman seemed to consider this outing of more import than either she or Hana did.  Maybe they were right; they had known David for years, and were familiar with his character and habits.  But Andy said that Les had been working with Miss Cook, learning about photography, so it stood to reason that if Les was doing things with her, David would, too.  All in all, Pauline thought that it wasn’t any of her business, particularly not while she was at work.  If Miss Cook shared any tidbits of information while she shopped, that couldn’t be helped; but Pauline wouldn’t ferret them out of her.

Still, this job required mental agility as well as physical stamina.  “Will you be a player or a spectator?” she asked, already assembling outfits in her mind.  No matter how obvious the answer seemed, she’d learned early on in her employment that one should never assume to know what a customer wanted.

As far as Pauline could tell Miss Cook’s little frown was born of confusion rather than annoyance.  “A spectator,” she said.

Pauline nodded.  “I’m not bad at baseball myself,” she remarked lightly, “but it isn’t the easiest thing to do in a skirt.  If you were playing I might suggest something like a cycling suit.  If you’ll just be watching, that will make our job here much easier.”  She leveled an encouraging smile at Miss Cook.  “What team will you be cheering for?”

“The Giants.  Does that make a difference?”  She was amused now, eyes sparkling under her dark brows.  Their color was quite unexpected in a complexion like hers.  Pauline wondered if she knew what an advantage those eyes could be.

“The more ardent supporters like to dress in their team’s colors.  The Giants wear…white and blue, I believe.”  At the moment she was wearing a slate blue skirt and pearly grey blouse, both far too fine for sitting in a stadium on a warm summer afternoon.  Would that Pauline could peek into Miss Cook’s closet.  Though she hadn’t paid much attention to what Miss Cook had been wearing at the studio, if what she had on now was any indication, she owned some very elegant, quality things.  If only they flattered her more!  Well, they would soon, if Pauline had anything to say about it.

Miss Cook too looked down at her outfit; when she raised her head again her eyebrows were raised.

“I think we can dispense with that notion for my first game,” she said drily.  “If I’m overcome with enthusiasm for the team I can come back later to supplement my wardrobe.“

Pauline nodded, happy to see that Miss Cook had relaxed, and led the way to a rack of skirts.  “I must admit, I’ve never been to a professional ballgame myself—you’ll have to come back and tell me if you enjoy it—but you’ll want something cool, in weather like this.  Would you prefer a dress or a skirt and blouse?”  When she didn’t answer right away Pauline suggested, “I would choose the separates.  It’s more casual than a dress, and I don’t think a game is a formal affair.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”  She rubbed the fabric of a skirt between thumb and forefinger.  Though her eyes were on the skirt, her attention was somewhere else.  “Would you like to come along?” she joked.  “You’re clearly better at this kind of thing than I am.”  It was easy enough to tell that “this kind of thing” wasn’t just shopping or attending sporting events.  The curiosity she’d tried to deny reared up, leaving Pauline to wonder who could have enticed Miss Cook to agree to something like this.  Someone she trusted, most likely; someone she didn’t want to disappoint.

“Miss Cook,” she said, “I’ve seen you at work.  I saw you read Hana and Roman both perfectly, and I’ve seen what comes of your intuition.  You are quite capable of handling yourself in any situation.”

She was quiet for a time, not looking up from the skirt she still held, long enough for Pauline to wonder if she’d said too much.  Then she saw Miss Cook smile.

Reassured, Pauline plucked up a bottle green linen skirt; from a stack on a nearby shelf came a creamy cotton shirtwaist lined with soft, sunny stripes.  She held Miss Cook’s gaze as she handed over the clothes.  “But of course you’ll feel more confident if you’re not worried about your outfit.  And in this, you needn’t be worried one bit.”

There was a strong possibility that Miss Cook would take the statement as frivolous and inane.  Pauline had been called that, and worse; but she believed every word she’d said, and thought that deep down most everyone else did, too.  

Miss Cook glanced at the things she now held.  “I suppose I’ll try them on,” she said, half a question and half a plea.

“Unless you trust me so completely that you’re willing to buy them without knowing if they fit.”  

She pretended to consider the prospect before cracking a smile.  Pauline led her to the changing room and then stepped away to wait, finding an order form, measuring tape, and pencil, just in case.  A happy anticipation filled her as she listened to the rustle of fabric within the room.  She was confident that she’d chosen well; what remained to be seen was whether or not Miss Cook agreed.

The woman who emerged from the fitting room looked younger than the one who’d gone in.  Whereas her face before had appeared dull and sallow, now it shone almost golden, accentuated by a flush in her cheeks that could only be of satisfaction.  Pauline tamped down the urge to clap her hands, but she didn’t bother to hide her smile as she led Miss Cook to an array of mirrors.

“What do you think?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, turning her head this way and that to take in the effect.  At last, her tone carefully even, she said, “I think it’s quite suitable for the occasion,” though the smile she shot Pauline in the mirror belied her cool response.

“It looks wonderful on you.”  That one compliment, true as it was, would be all that Miss Cook could stand; any more and Pauline knew she would cease to believe them.  “Shall I get your measurements for the order?”

With Miss Cook’s nod she stepped forward.  The fit wasn’t bad overall, but the skirt was too short, as were the sleeves—the ruffle was meant to fall over the elbow and didn’t quite make it.  She jotted down measurements, item numbers, fabric details, all the while humming.  While being measured some customers heard any noise, no matter how natural or unavoidable, as judgment against them; Pauline found that humming a tune alleviated some of those fears.  Soon enough she’d finished and draped the measuring tape around her neck.

“Is there anything else?” she asked, of herself as much as of her client.  “How about a hat?  Something lightweight?”

Miss Cook shrugged.  “Might as well.  Pick one, would you please?”

Pauline, aglow with the trust placed in her, did so, returning to hand Miss Cook a straw hat, wide-brimmed and flat-crowned.  Miss Cook settled it on her head, appraised her reflection once more, and nodded.

While she changed back into her clothes, Pauline went to the counter, hat in hand, to prepare the receipt.  When Miss Cook joined her, setting the things she’d tried on atop the counter, the ease and sureness she’d had before were still there, even in her old clothes.  And she didn’t bat an eye when Pauline told her the total.  How nice that must be.  

“They should be ready in a week, if that long.  I hope that’s enough time before the big game.”  

Her shoulders tensed, as if she were just remembering why she’d come in.  “That should be fine.”  Miss Cook pulled the hatbox toward her, then caught Pauline’s eye.  “Thank you so much for your help.  You made something I was dreading painless.”

“It was my pleasure.  And please do come back and tell me about the game!”

She chuckled.  “I hope it’s as interesting as you expect.”  They shook hands, and Miss Cook moved toward the door; before she’d gotten more than a few steps, though, she paused and turned.  “You haven’t been in to have your portrait made.”

Pauline couldn’t help it; she sighed.  With a rueful smile she said, “No, not yet.  I’ll have to wait for a special occasion.”  She couldn’t justify the expense otherwise, not when she ought to be saving for the future.  But it wasn’t so long now until her birthday; maybe if she dropped a hint or two Calvin would arrange a sitting for her, the way Roman had for Hana.

Miss Cook nodded.  “Whenever you’re ready, it will be my honor to photograph you,” she said.  Once again she made as if to leave; once again she paused, turned back.  “And if you want…if you’re ever interested in lunch, or just a coffee break,” she offered shyly, “I’m just across the way.”  She nodded toward the studio, so close by. 

The invitation was a greater reward than her paycheck.  Pauline smiled.  “Thank you, Miss Cook.  I’d like that.”


	113. Králiček (19 July 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the fact that Skittery hops right over somebody in “Carryin’ the Banner.”

 

  * One day they’re walking somewhere, Roman and Tumbler roughhousing as they go.  Roman steps from a box to the top of a barrel and then jumps from it over Tumbler’s head. 
  * Hana’s eyes get big; she’s not used to seeing him perform the kind of acrobatic feats they did as newsies.
  * “You are like a…"  She honestly can’t think of the word for a minute before she giggles and says, " _Králiček_."
  * Tumbler groans.
  * "A what?” Roman asks after a moment’s thought.  She can’t answer right away either, distracted by the way he’s pushed back his hair and the bit of skin revealed by his open collar.  Right before she responds she thinks better of it and closes her mouth.
  * “ _Králiček_ ,” she says instead, slowly and distinctly, as if he just didn’t hear. 
  * He frowns.  “Yeah.  What’s that in English?”
  * She clamps her lips shut and shakes her head.  “C'mon, Hanka,” he protests, “what is it?”
  * She’s laughing now, shaking with it, one hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes bright.  When he advances toward her she skips out of reach; he pursues her down the street as she dodges carts and pedestrians, letting the laughter peal after her, with no expectation of escaping him.  Sure enough he soon catches her around the waist and pulls her into an alley, crowds her against the wall and plants his hands on either side of her head.
  * “What’s it mean?” he demands.  She blinks up at him, silent and smiling. He leans closer.
  * “What’s it mean?” he repeats. This time his lips brush her ear.  His breath is hot against her neck and there’s the barest whisper of contact between his lips and the skin of her neck, her throat, her jaw.  It’s torture, and all she can say is his name.
  * “I’m goin’ home,” Tumbler hollers from the street.  The spell is broken.  Hana is both relieved and disappointed.
  * What with one thing and another it doesn’t come up again and she assumes he forgets.
  * Until he comes in one evening red-faced to–after having checked that Mr. and Mrs. Kollár are not in earshot–explain, “I asked Mrs. Procházka what  _králiček_ meant.  She wanted to know why, an’ when I told her it was somethin’ you’d called me, she laughed until she cried."  He glowers at her, but she can tell he isn’t really angry. 
  * "I forgot the English word!” she protests. 
  * “Bunny."  His face is stony.  " _Králiček_  is bunny.  You called me a bunny in the middle of Manhattan–"
  * "No one knew this!  And I said you are  _like_  a bunny.”
  * “–an’ then I had to tell Mrs. Procházka about it.  Why couldn’t ya have called me somethin’…manlier?"  He collapses onto the settee in defeat.  "Like a wolf, maybe.”
  * Stifling a giggle Hana sits down close to his side.  He crosses his arms over his chest (stubborn as a mule) until she reaches up to slide her fingers through his hair.  Then he relaxes, eyes closing at her touch.  “I called you  _králiček_ because you hopped like one.  But you are also soft–"  She tugs lightly at his hair and any remaining resistance drains from him, slipping away with a sigh.  ”–and cute, and loveable, and holding you makes me happy.“  She puts her free arm around his waist, earning a shiver, and leans into him.  His eyes are wide and dark as he looks at her; he doesn’t move as she leans in and kisses him.
  * "So maybe I’m a bunny,” he admits, “but I think that means you’re the wolf.”
  * She grins, trying out a growl, and when he chuckles she kisses him again. 




	114. Baseball (27 July 1905)

Judith adjusted her hat yet again.  No matter how many pins she used, she could never quite achieve that insouciant angle that the young women in advertisements seemed able to muster so effortlessly. 

David and Les were due to meet her at the studio any minute.  She’d rather they had picked her up at the Cooks’ apartment; it was further uptown and therefore closer to the stadium.  And if they had gone there, she wouldn’t have had to show off her new outfit to her parents and Mr. Till.  The Jacobs brothers wouldn’t know that she’d gone out and bought clothes specially, but her family did.  They were all complimentary, of course, sincerely so; Mother in particular was impressed by the ensemble, and Judith was happy to give credit to Pauline.  But their praise and the effort she’d put into her appearance made this outing seem like a much bigger deal than it really was.

If she’d been hoping for compliments from her escorts—and part of her had—it was in vain.  They both smiled upon seeing her, and it was possible that David’s eyes swept over her head to toe; but he said nothing about her appearance, only greeted her mother cordially.  That was all of the interaction Judith wanted him to have with her, especially after Mr. Till had waylaid him and revealed her nickname.  Mother could do so much worse—not on purpose, of course, but that would hardly matter after the fact.  Judith picked up her handbag from the desk, eager to move along.  If only it were that easy.  

“Oh, here,” David said, holding out a small hardcover book, “I got ya this.”

It was a French-English dictionary, used but well taken care of.  “Denton said I could have it for ya; he’s got another one.”  Indeed,  _Bryan Denton_  was inscribed on the bookplate inside.  “But I figured you could use it to read that article on the Lumières.”

Soon after he’d left that afternoon she’d given up on trying to decipher it and stuck the magazine away.  She’d nearly forgotten about it.  He hadn’t.  “That was very thoughtful of you,” she said, pulse thumping hard for a few beats, “thank you.”  How would she make it up to him for all of the times he’d said or done something kind?  She’d better think of a way, and fast.

“You’re welcome.”  One side of his smile rose higher than the other.  “You ready to go?”

She set the dictionary on the desk, let her hand rest on it for a second.  Then, with a nod to her almost suspiciously placid mother, she followed the brothers out of the studio. 

The Polo Grounds, as the ball field was called, was up north of Central Park: much too far to walk, especially in late July.  The trio ascended the steps to the el and boarded an uptown-bound car.  Judith, entering first, found a pair of seats fortuitously empty; she took one and Les, following behind her, hurriedly planted himself in the other.  David stood in front of his brother, one arm raised to hold the strap that dangled from above.

Over the clattering Les regaled her with the contents of Jack’s latest letter.  Much of the news was about Danny, to no one’s surprise; he had teeth coming in and thus was making life miserable for his dear old dad and even worse for his saintly mother.  “An’ Nell’s doin’ fine, too,” Les concluded, rounding out the family news.

“Where did Jack get the name Cowboy?  He works on a farm, not…wherever cowboys work.  I assume there is a difference.”  Cowboys belonged out in the far west somewhere, in that great expanse of country that was Not New York.  Sometimes she thought herself well-traveled, especially for the neighborhood in which she worked, but shuttling among Rhode Island, Portugal, and the city hardly gave one a comprehensive picture of the world.

David looked down sharply at Les, the first sign that he was able to hear their conversation.  The younger brother, shrugging, said, “Jack had this Western Jim dime novel that he loved.  It made him want to go to Santa Fe—out in New Mexico.  Just to see what it was like, ya know?  If the guy that wrote Western Jim got it right.”

“Did he?  Go to New Mexico, that is.”

“O’ course!” Les replied, and she felt a flash of shame for having doubted Jack.  “He worked on a ranch, the Four Diamond Rail.  He said it wasn’t exactly like bein’ a cowboy back in the old days, since they weren’t drivin’ the herds across the trackless range anymore, but he learned a lot.  Then after he came back, he an’ Sarah went back to the ranch for their honeymoon.”

“Did you ever get to go?”

He shook his head.  “Furthest I’ve been is Valhalla.  Sarah’s been to Santa Fe an’ Dave’s been to Poland, but I haven’t gotten to go anywhere an’ have my own adventure yet.”  He looked wistful.

Thinking of her last voyage she said, “Sometimes long journeys aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

“Says somebody who’s been across the ocean,” he retorted.  “I’ve barely been across the Hudson.”

“Touché,” she laughed.  “I’d invite you along the next time I went up to Newport, but I doubt that’s the kind of thrilling quest you’re hoping for.  Or that I’d be welcome there,” she muttered.  The silver ring circled her finger like a scar; she gave it a twist, one revolution and then another. 

“Why’s that?” David asked.  She looked up—her hat was fashionable but slightly impractical; she had to tip her head back to see out from under the brim—to find him wearing an expression that made her heart sink.  She couldn’t begrudge him his curiosity; she just preferred not to be its target. 

She swallowed and deflected the question.  “Not all of us have your charm and ingratiating manner.”

“Luckily,” he added.  When his eyes drifted down she realized she was still fidgeting with the ring.  Too late she folded her hands together, left over right, obscuring it from view; the damage had already been done, though.  He wasn’t likely to forget about it or what she’d said.

“Charm.  Sure,” Les scoffed.  “That must be why he’s never—”

David lunged, hand darting out to cover Les’ mouth.  There was little space for Les to dodge, though he still tried; he knocked into her in his attempts to free himself from the hand clamped over his face.  “Sorry, Judith,” he laughed, the sound muffled.  She looked from his bright, mischievous face to his brother’s threatening one and wondered what wordless conversation they were having.  After a moment David eased his grip, his eyes still warning; though his amusement hadn’t lessened, Les said nothing.

David’s face was pink when he looked at her.  “What’s it like, bein’ an only child?” he asked.  As the car swayed to a stop he shuffled back to let her stand.  “Peaceful, I bet.”

“Boring,” suggested Les, trying to duck under his arm.

“A little of both,” she said over her shoulder.

From the stop on 155th Street they headed west, away from Eighth Avenue.  Judith rarely came so far uptown; this part of the city was unfamiliar, though not impossible to navigate.  Unlike lower Manhattan, long ago flattened into a more profitable landscape, here the city still retained some of its original topography.  The stadium rested in a hollow at the base of a cliff; beyond it ran the Harlem River, with the Bronx on its far bank.  A set of stairs at the top of the bluff led to the ticket office below, though one could easily forego paying for a seat if one chose instead to watch from above.  At least now, with the sun near its highest, they were descending; climbing the stairs in this heat would be brutal.  As they made their way down Judith was relieved to see that she was not the only woman there, a thought that had crossed her mind on their way there.  Surely Mr. Till would have warned her if it had been otherwise.

“Three, please,” David said when at last they’d reached the front of the line. 

At his side she protested, “I can—”

“I invited you, remember?” he asked, glancing over.  “That means I’m payin’.”

She barely hid a huff of frustration.  “Tell me, are you habitually this stubborn, or just with me?”

“Stubborn?” he gasped, eyes wide and one hand pressed to his chest.  “I’m bein’ polite.”  A shadow of a smirk played on his lips as he handed her a ticket. 

“He’s always stubborn, an’ not always this polite,” Les pointed out.  They made their way through the gates before beginning to search for their seats in the shaded grandstand. 

“But by being polite is he forcing me to be impolite?” she asked.  She shot a quick look at David, eyebrows raised to emphasize her point.  “If another of your friends, someone of lesser means than you, invited you somewhere, would you insist that he pay, simply because he did the asking?”

“That’s different.”  His protest didn’t sound entirely confident, though.

“Aha.”  She paused in the aisle to face him.  Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he stood a step higher than she did.  “So you would have me constrained to certain roles because of my gender.  Even though it would be more fair from an economic standpoint that I buy the tickets, because I’m a woman, I should consent to being bought?”

He let out a sharp laugh.  “That’s a little melodramatic, but I’ll grant your point.  So long as you grant that it’s dangerous to assume that someone—especially a friend—has lesser means than you do.”  It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, and then to point behind her, where Les had found their seats.

Anyone who’d seen both her home and his would have drawn the same conclusion about which family was better off.  Still, it was gauche at best to comment on such things, something she knew well.  Before she turned she inclined her head in agreement.  “Perhaps we should dispense with any expectation of politeness from each other.”  Then she wheeled and set off in the right direction.

From over her shoulder he warned, “Ya wouldn’t be so quick to suggest that if you’d seen how tactless I can be, just by accident.”

She didn’t answer right away, instead thinking back on their previous conversations; in her memory she was more often the tactless one, not him. 

“What would be really unfair,” he went on, “would be the burden always bein’ on one person.  Especially if the ideas were both people’s.”  Les was already seated by the time they reached him, next to a nattily dressed young man some years his senior.  Judith smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat on his opposite side, leaving David to settle into the aisle seat.  She swiveled to face him.

“Why not reverse the roles, then?” she suggested.  “You invite me to a baseball game but I buy the tickets.  That would require both parties to be thoughtful about their choices.  I wouldn’t ask you to Delmonico’s in that case, for instance.”

He chuckled.  “And only in that instance?  I don’t think they’d even let me in, since I don’t own a tuxedo.”

“You mean you couldn’t charm your way in?”  Her attempt at an innocent smile fell wide of the mark, twisting into a smirk instead.

“Why the sudden fixation on my charm, Miss Cook?”

His challenging gaze and the realization that she must seem too interested set her heart pounding.  But her voice was still cool and steady as she answered, “I’m hoping for some proof of its existence.”  While not the cleverest of retorts, it was better than blushing and stammering, the reaction part of her was tempted to.  David’s eyes dropped before flicking back up to meet hers; though his gaze was frank she was unsure of what lay behind it, and this time she was the one to look away.

“I’m satisfied with our arrangement so far,” he said.  There was a world of ambiguity in that sentence; all she could do was nod as she turned away, ostensibly to study the stadium.

Though she had no personal experience with the game, her acquaintance with Mr. Till granted her a basic understanding of how it was played: one player tried to hit a ball thrown by a member of the opposing team, and, if successful, then tried to complete a circuit of the bases.  It didn’t seem something that required much brainpower, and she wondered if watching grown men bash at a ball would be interesting for very long. 

There were certainly enough other spectators there to suggest it would.  As Pauline had said, many of them bore the two teams’ colors: waves of blue—hats and ties and little felt pennants—for the Giants, with defiant islands of red for the visitors from Cincinnati.  The mood was festive, as if this were not otherwise a normal Thursday in late July.  Laughter and cheers rang out; somewhere in the stadium a brass band was blaring a Sousa march; vendors moved through the crowd hawking souvenirs and snacks.  Little of that changed when the game began: people still chatted and yelled, at each other and the players, and ate and drank.  It seemed the equine names of the Polo Grounds and the Hippodrome were all they had in common, for even in a theater as large as the latter, there was still a expectation that the audience would keep quiet to a certain degree, out of respect for the performers and their fellow observers.  Quiet the ballpark was not.  Over each team’s dugout hung a cohort of youths; some merely observed the players within, while others cheered or heckled.  Among those remaining seated in the stands taunts against the man currently at bat seemed most popular.  And standing where one might expect some kind of wall to enclose the field were dedicated fans, willing to brave the sun for a closer view of their team.

Not long after they’d sat Les had struck up a conversation with the bespectacled young man sitting next to him, who introduced himself as Stevie.  From the chat Judith overheard an introduction to New York’s players: the pitcher Hooks Wiltse, so named because of his curveball; Dummy Taylor; “Turkey” Mike Donlin; Boileryard Clarke; Christy Mathewson; Red Ames; Roger Bresnahan, called the Duke of Tralee for his parents’ birthplace. 

“An Irishman claimin’ he’s somethin’ he’s not,” David murmured on her other side.  “What a shock.”  She let her elbow slip off of the armrest into his bicep, though he only chuckled at the rebuke.

“They’re as bad as a bunch of newsboys,” she muttered, “except they’re grown men.”

“The nicknames have a purpose, though.  How many guys do you know named William or John or Michael?  When you’ve got to get someone’s attention fast, callin’ a unique name saves time.  And look—now that ya know these fellas’ nicknames, don’t you kind o’ feel closer to them?  Like you’re part of somethin’?  You get a sense o’ camaraderie when you call somebody by a nickname.”  There was a nostalgic air to his words and a sweet smile on his lips.

“I wouldn’t know,” she sniffed pointedly, turning her attention back to the game.

Stevie was proudly reporting that the Giants were on a winning streak; their defeat of the Reds the previous day had been their sixth victory in a row.  That impressive fact was thus far not in evidence at this game.  For the first three innings the Giants remained scoreless to Cincinnati’s single point.  Then, in the fourth inning, the unassumingly-named George Browne (“Poor man,” Judith tutted; “Brownie,” David returned immediately) took his place at the plate.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation.  “Is he good?” she asked, leaning toward Les but not daring to look away from the field.

Stevie pitched forward so she could see his doubtful expression.  “He’s not the best, but pretty good.  Keep your fingers crossed.”  He touched the brim of his cap before leaning back; at which point she just caught him mutter to Les, “This her first game?”

“Yeah.  But she’s a fast learner.”  Les’ kindness, too, would be hard to repay.

Cheers of “Come on, Browne!” echoed from all around her as the Cincinnati pitcher wound up.  She found herself leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, joining with the fans around her in exhorting George Browne to hit it out of the park.  

His first swing was a miss, to everyone’s dismay; he stepped back from the plate, shaking his head, as the catcher returned the ball to the man on the mound.  The next pitch was wide and Browne did not swing.  Her nerves were jangling as he crouched for the third pitch, knees bent, bat over his shoulder, still loose despite the tension she was feeling.  Judith couldn’t tell if the pitch was a good one or not but there was a solid crack as the bat collided with it.  She held her breath as he pelted toward first base.  For a moment it appeared that he would be tagged out, but a Reds fielder (his name of no importance) missed the ball and Browne was safe at first.  The fans cheered as if he’d won the entire game with one hit.  Judith leapt to her feet, whooping; on either side of her Les and David did the same, David adding a sharp two-fingered whistle to the chorus.  Their eyes locked as they sat, and she wondered if she looked as red-faced and exultant as he did.  

The next Giant up, Dan McGann, drove the ball into left field; Browne raced ahead of him and made it all the way home, bringing the crowd to their feet once again as the scoreboard showed a tied game.  Sam Mertes’ hit into right field brought McGann to home, the score into New York’s favor, and the crowd to their feet once more.  It was only a game, she knew, and the people around her were strangers; but in this they were united, their pride and jubilation magnified.

This time when they resumed their seats she pulled out her handkerchief to dab at her face.  The city’s heat wave had not abated in deference to her outing; she couldn’t imagine how the players felt, competing in the full sun in their long-sleeved uniforms.  Les’ sleeves had been rolled up since they’d picked her up, and David had followed suit not long after.  All around them were loosened collars and flapping newspapers.  Lacking a fan or the ability to loosen her clothing without appearing loose, Judith flagged down one of the vendors strolling the stairs of the grandstand.

As did most everyone else in the stadium he had a florid face, dripping with sweat.  Neither the barrel he lugged nor the heat seemed to bother him; he graced her with a beneficent smile.  “What can I get ya, sweetheart?”

The endearment took her aback for a moment before she managed, “Three lemonades, please.”

The lemonade that he presented them with was barely cool; as long as it was wet it would be better than nothing.  She passed one glass to Les, smiling at his enthusiastic thanks and ignoring Stevie’s hopeful look, and left David to hold the other two as she opened her purse.

“Y’aren’t goin’ to make your lady friend pay, are ya?” the vendor demanded of David, indignant but jovial.  David looked from the vendor to her, and then at the glasses he held; with a sigh he passed them to her and reached into his pocket.  She opened her mouth but wasn’t sure what, if anything, she could say. 

After a beat he slapped some change into the vendor’s hand.  “Who says chivalry is dead?” he asked dryly.

“You’re a fine gentleman, young sir,” the vendor announced, the soul of magnanimity.  To her he said, “Don’t let this one get away, miss.”

Once he had moved on it took a whole three strikes for her to recover enough from her bout of embarrassment to offer David a few coins.  “I got it,” he said, voice a little tight and face maybe redder than before, not meeting her eyes.  “My invitation, my treat.”

She would not rehash the argument again, though she was sure that this time she would win.  “Don’t be stupid, Davey,” she snapped, feeling unaccountably fond in spite of her annoyance, and pushed the coins into his palm.  For a second his fingers curled upward, brushing her hand; then she snatched it back and took an aggrieved sip of lemonade.

The fifth inning was scoreless on both sides, but the damage had been done.  In the seventh they had another round of lemonade and peanuts and speculated about what exactly the Reds pitcher had said to the umpire to get ejected from the game.  With the crowd howling for them the Giants allowed the Reds just two more runs in the rest of the game, and scored an additional seven.  At the end the scoreboard read 9-3, stretching New York’s winning streak to seven.  The Giants shook hands with the defeated Reds and then waved to the crowds as the band struck up again; the field began to fill with spectators eager to congratulate the men as others began to file out of the stadium.  It was a certainty that the taverns around Polo Grounds would be full for the rest of the evening.

Les said goodbye to Stevie, who had to hurry back to St. John’s in Rose Hill, and they made their slow way through the stadium and up the steps to the street again.  After so long in the sun and flush with victory, the crowd swayed and sang, arms around each other’s shoulders; being part of the throng was a heady feeling.  But Judith couldn’t avoid the thought that had the result been different, she would feel much less secure, even with David and Les nearby. 

There were open seats on the el this time, and Les settled into one as Judith and David took the empty spots opposite.  In the close quarters of the carriage she could smell the sun on her clothes and the sweat on her skin; David’s arm was warm against hers.  It was easy to float along on the tide of victory, to feel benevolent toward all the world when one’s team had just won its seventh straight game.  Staring out the window behind Les’ head, she couldn’t help but smile.

David’s elbow bumped hers.  “Looks like you’re converted,” he said.  “I should’ve bought ya one of those pins.”  Among the vendors had been a woman selling blue rosettes, cheap ones made of paper and more expensive ones in fabric.

Judith shook her head.  “I’m just pleased that we won.”  And pleased with the train’s rocking and Les’ familiar face and the day’s heat dwindling and David next to her.

“Oh,  _you_  won?  What position did you play?” he teased.

“Center field.”  She waved away from them.  “I’m not surprised you missed me; I was pretty far back.”

Across the way Les yawned, slowly raising a hand to cover his gaping mouth.  Then a grimace took over his face and the hand lowered to his stomach, which he rubbed piteously.  He looked at them with wide eyes and a hopeful expression and suggested, “Dinner?”

Judith and David looked at each other and burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not make up any of those Giants’ nicknames (except for assuming Brownie); please see their entries at Baseball Reference or Baseball Almanac for proof. Details about the game’s progress mainly came from a July 28 article in the Sun, though I had to fill in some of my own, particularly about Browne’s time at bat.
> 
> JACK: WAIT ‘TIL I TELL SARAH HER BROTHERS WENT TO A REAL LIVE BASEBALL GAME WITH A GIRL!!!!!!!!!!


	115. Coffee (3 August 1905)

“Coffee?” he asked the moment she hung up the telephone.  He’d come in shortly after she’d answered the call and had watched her, a hopeful expression on his face, as she flipped through the appointment book. 

She spread her arms over the desk in front of her.  “Some of us have work to do, Mr. Jacobs.”  Papa’s appointment on Sunday had been rescheduled; she’d already filled in the new time and now set to erasing the previous entry.

But even bent over the appointment book she could see David’s winning smile.  “C’mon, Dita,” he cajoled, “can’t ya take a break?”  Both her eraser and her heart stuttered in their progress.

One eyebrow rose, though she didn’t lift her head.  “Dita?” she asked.  She bit the inside of her cheek and pretended to check another date in the book.  He didn’t answer right away; when she glanced up it was to find him flustered.

“From Judite,” he explained, “sort of.  And in Polish it’s Judyta.  Dita is a common nickname there.  I thought…”  He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at her.  Again her heart stuttered, and the second occurrence brought with it a sinking feeling, the hint of a realization that she did her best to ignore.

“It’s fine,” she said, more quietly than she intended.  “I…don’t mind.”  That was an understatement, to say the least.

He dropped his hand and smiled, relief writ large on his features.  “Okay.  Okay, good.  So, coffee?”

No matter how much she may have wanted to go, she couldn’t leave the desk unattended.  As she was about to explain just that her mother appeared.  Judith wondered how much of their conversation she’d heard.

“Go ahead if you like, Judith.  I can watch the desk for a while.”

“Are you sure?”

“I believe I can handle it.”  Mother’s smile was sly.  “But I expect you to remember this the next time I ask for a favor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cook.”

Her acquiescence came a little too easily, as had her silence the afternoon of the baseball game.  It made Judith uneasy as she trailed David across the square, made the space between her shoulder blades feel clammy despite the summer heat.  Even so, his enthusiasm for Tibby’s coffee was enough to distract her.

Once the waiter had delivered their mugs she leaned forward to whisper across the table, “Do you really enjoy this coffee?”

“‘Enjoy’ might be too strong a word.”  Despite that statement he let out a satisfied sigh after he’d taken a sip.  He went on, “I appreciate that it doesn’t seem to change.  It’s nice to find a constant in this city, when everything’s always changin’.  An’ everyone here’s been good to us over the years.  The least I can do is keep comin’ back, even if it’s just for a quick drink.”

“That’s good of you.”

“Don’t make me out to be some big altruist ’cause of a cup o’ coffee,” he warned.  “My motives are purely selfish.”  He pulled the mug closer to himself, as if afraid she would take it away. 

“Yes, I’ve noticed that about you.  You’re self-serving to the core, never think about others.  It’s reprehensible.”  Eyes rolling, he shook his head; his lips tugged up at the corners, though he tried to hide it behind his mug.  After a pause she asked, ever so casually, “Did you know lots of girls named Judyta in Poland?”

That falling sensation in her chest returned as his eyes went distant and soft.  Worst of all, she had brought the disappointment on herself by asking the question.  Would she never learn?  “Just one,” he said, staring past her, “but she was pretty.  She had big brown eyes and long, silky hair…”  He smiled and took another sip from his mug.

Judith watched him for a moment before spooning more sugar into her coffee.  Maybe that would ease the sourness in her stomach.  She, too, sipped—it was altogether too sweet now—but as she lowered her mug a memory tickled her brain.  Eyes narrowed, she asked, “Brown eyes and long hair…was she a horse, too?”

David laughed, loud and carefree.  “No.  She would love Nell, though—and they’re about the same age.  This Judyta was the daughter of one of my cousins.  She was about six when I was there.”  

In her relief she breathed out the kind of word nice women were not supposed to know.  She’d meant to call him a cad, or maybe a rascal, but a different and decidedly unladylike word came out instead.  At first his eyes widened; then he snickered as, embarrassed, she glared across the table.

“Such language, Miss Cook!” David reprimanded her, though his voice was laced with laughter.  “No wonder you’re not welcome in Newport anymore.  That sort o’ behavior is unfit for polite society.”

The playful primness of his words faded under the rushing in her head.  Instead she heard Grandmother’s voice, saying  _She is a disgrace, Isabela_.  Her mother’s answer had been so quiet that Judith hadn’t been able to decipher if it was defense or agreement.   _She has shamed me, in front of hundreds of people—thousands.  Why did she not get your grace, your beauty?  She should have been a boy instead.  Then no one would mind her ugly face and her strange habits.  It is good you left Newport.  She will never fit in to society there._

For weeks afterward she’d heard the tirade repeat itself in her mind.  Grandmother had been cruel, perhaps, but not wrong: few people cared if a man remained unmarried.  What was more, men had freedom and power and the means to overcome their failings.  She had been certain, so soon after the incident, that she would carry her failings with her for the rest of her life, and that they were apparent to everyone who saw her.  With the passing of a year or two she’d come to suspect that her grandmother’s outrage was against the world as much as it was against Judith, and that dulled the sting on the occasions when the voice returned (though Grandmother remained silent in the flesh).  Now, though, caught unaware by the sudden reminder of those words, and all the more afflicted because of the man who spoke them, even in jest, her insecurities reared up hydra-like within her.

Her mug clattered against the table as she set it down, the heat wave a mere memory now that a cold panic was flooding her.  Without a conscious decision to move she pushed back her chair and stood.  Then, as if in a trance, she crossed the room.  Behind her she heard David call her name, heard the clatter of coins on the table, heard his chair squeak across the floor and his footsteps hurry after her; still she kept moving until she was outside.

Everything could change if she let herself speak.  But she didn’t think she could stop the truth from coming out, no matter how much she feared the consequences.  She couldn’t bear him knowing, and she couldn’t bear keeping it inside any longer.  At least if she told him, his reaction would no longer be an uncertainty, a cause for worry; for good or ill, that part would be over.

He caught up to her in the shadow of the Greeley statue.  “Judith?  I was just jokin’.  I shouldn’t’ve said anything about it.  I’m sorry.”  His hand slipped around her arm, easing her to face him.  “Are you okay?”

It took a beat before she really saw him.  He was squinting at her, examining her from head to toe as if searching for some physical malady.  Her arm was too hot where he held it; she tugged it free and turned away, retreating until her back brushed the statue’s pedestal.

“I have to tell you something,” she said.  If she forced herself to meet his eyes now he would believe her, and she wouldn’t have to do it later, when it would be too difficult.  So she raised her eyes and looked at him: his expression was serious and his body taut.  “While I tell you, you have to stay quiet, and you can’t ask me any questions.  And when I’m done I’m going to leave, and you can’t follow me.”  As if he’d want to, after he heard what she was going to say. 

“Judith—” he began, taking a step closer.

“You have to promise.”  The words were clear and sharp, stinging as salt in a wound.  “I won’t be able to tell you if you don’t.”

He frowned at her until she almost couldn’t stand it.  At last he nodded tightly.  “Alright.  I promise.”

With his assurance given she turned away and fixed her gaze on the opposite curb.  The facts—she could manage those without them choking her.  “When I was 17 I was engaged to marry a man named Heitor Carvalho.  He is a distant cousin and lives in Portugal.  My grandmother Rodrigues and I sailed over to visit relatives there for a month, and Heitor joined us on the way back.  I’m not…  I hadn’t…”  She swallowed; then she raised her chin.  The facts: “No one else had shown any interest in marrying me, and there was no reason to expect anyone would.  So I agreed to marry Heitor.  He would take some of the strain off of my parents by working in the studio, and by ensuring that I would be taken care of—legally, you know, since we unmarried women have so few rights.”  Bitterness rose in her throat.  She waited until it had faded before she could go on. 

“The trip back was about halfway over when we heard that a passenger had been badly beaten, and that Heitor was responsible.  I’m sure you heard the story; it’s the kind of bloody scandal that makes good headlines.  The last time we’d seen him was after dinner.  I didn’t know that he’d spent most of his nights gambling at cards with some other passengers.  That night one of the men made fun of Heitor for having to marry his ugly cousin.”  Though David stirred at her side she could not look to see his reaction, the pity in his eyes, the lie of refutation on his lips.  “In return, Heitor nearly killed him.  Better to spend your life in prison than shackled to me.”  That was supposition, but she had believed it for so long that it felt true.  Having strayed from the simple facts with no ill effects, she allowed herself more license.

“A ship is a small town.  It wasn’t long before everyone knew about what had happened, and that Heitor had been traveling with us.  There was plenty of gossip, but the consensus was that I must have been rich, or he must have been desperate to get to the United States.  Why else would he have agreed to marry me?  Grandmother was humiliated and furious.  The marriage had been her idea, and her sister’s, but I doubt she felt responsible.  She paid for the trip; I’m sure she mentioned the marriage to her friends in Newport.  No doubt she was expecting a better return on her investment than the one I provided.  It was my fault.”  It was the first time she’d said the words aloud.  “It had to be.  If I were interesting, he would have stayed with us instead of playing cards.  If I were pretty, no one could have teased him about having to marry me.  And, of course, if I were pretty, my grandmother wouldn’t have had to make a match for me.  So it was all because of me.

“When the police finally finished questioning Grandmother and me and let us go, she went back to Newport as soon as she could.  She hasn’t spoken to me since.  That was seven years ago.  I don’t know what she told her friends or the rest of the family about it.  Mother lied for me, said Heitor had been too sick to come back with us.  I stayed away from everyone I knew for as long as I could.  Fortunately I was never the social sort, and I wasn’t much missed.

“By virtue of simply being myself, I managed to lose a fiancé, alienate my grandmother, and carry on being a burden to my parents.”  Summed up that way it sounded pathetic.  Despite how all-encompassing, how earth-shattering it felt to her, in reality the issue was small and personal—all that was at stake was her pride, her status, her self-esteem—and no different than the trials of thousands of other women.  There was no reason to expect he’d be moved by her revelation, not when the injustices he fought were so much bigger.

There was nothing more to add.  She lingered a moment longer before the thought of his pity spurred her homeward.  True to his promise he let her walk away.  With every step she took she felt the crack in her chest grow deeper and wider.

* * *

The next day passed without word from him: no unexpected visit, no note.  She felt exhausted, and sick to her stomach, and stupid.  That was the worst of it, the feeling that she should have known this would happen, could have avoided it by keeping her mouth shut.  Fortunately she had no appointments that day and was able to work in the darkroom, hidden away from the rest of the world.  That didn’t stop Mr. Till from asking what was wrong, or Papa from eyeing her anxiously when she emerged for a drink of water.  She was fine, she told them, she’d just slept badly and felt a little under the weather.  Neither man looked convinced by the explanation. 

When Mother and Papa headed home for dinner she stayed behind, waiting until Mr. Till’s last appointment was done and then helping him sweep and tidy the studio.  He offered to see her home afterward but she declined, as it was still light out; besides, she was in no mood to fend off his prying or prodding, no matter how well-intentioned.  If this…situation lasted much longer her parents would want answers, but for tonight she could still hope to be left alone.

Hope was such a treacherous thing.

As she climbed the stairs to their floor she heard the sound of soles in the hallway above.  And at the top there was David, pacing back and forth in front of their door.  His hair was awry, as if he’d been clutching at his head, and his jaw was set.  The relief she felt upon seeing him—realizing that he must not hate her after all—was understandable, even excusable; but the flutter of pleasure in her belly was not.  Those good feelings were swiftly eaten away by a wash of acid rising from her stomach.  He stepped toward her, then checked himself and let her approach the door.

Without preamble he said, “I’m sorry,” not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but we have to talk about this.”  As she opened her mouth to retort that she had nothing more to say, he cut her off.  “You don’t have to say anything if ya don’t want.  But just listen, alright?”

She gave a slow nod.  The door was unlocked when she turned the handle, and she spared him a glance.  “Your folks invited me in to wait.  But I didn’t want to come in if you didn’t want to see me.”  She nodded again and preceded him in.

Mother’s face appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.  Seeing the two of them she spoke over her shoulder; then she and Papa hurried through the sitting room as unobtrusively as possible, shutting the door to their bedroom behind them.  Judith gestured to a chair, offering David a place to sit, but he remained standing even after she’d taken a seat on the sofa.  She wondered if he intended to resume his pacing and was relieved that he remained in one spot, just in front of the fireplace.  He rubbed his palms together, looking like a general about to exhort his troops.  She hoped whatever he had to say would not take long.  She was so tired. 

He looked at her, solemn and certain, and said, “It’s not your fault.”

In the aftermath, no one had told her that.  Or maybe they had, and she hadn’t been listening.  But she thought she would remember if someone had said it. 

“You can’t know that,” she said flatly. 

“You can’t know it was your fault,” he retorted.  “Did you talk to him at all after it happened?”

“No.  But—”

His argument built in intensity as he went on.  “You weren’t responsible for his actions.  You weren’t responsible for him bein’ a bully with a bad temper.  Did ya even know he was like that?  Did anyone tell you?”  She shrugged; no one had mentioned a temper, not to her.  “They were goin’ to let you marry some guy you didn’t know without tellin’ you that he was dangerous?  You could be dead now!”  

Her parents could not have failed to hear that, no matter how polite they were trying to be.  Let them hear, she thought, with a spike of petty satisfaction.

She laughed.  It was not a lovely sound.  “You make it sound so easy.  You can’t understand what it’s like, knowing that someone hated your face so much he almost killed a man.  Knowing that he would rather go to prison than marry you.”

“You don’t know that he thought that.  And even if it’s true, it’s still not your fault,” he repeated, shaking his head.  “Would you want to be married to someone like that?  Somebody who only valued you because o’ how you look, instead of because you’re an amazin’ photographer who’s about to be published in a major newspaper, an’ because you’re so good at makin’ people feel comfortable, an’ because you ask good questions?  That guy wasn’t goin’ to be good for you.” 

“And no one else is, either.  But he was at least willing to put up with me—”

“Yeah, for a ticket here, an’ you deserve more than bein’  _tolerated_ , Judith—”

She raised her voice to match his.  “And he was going to help out with the studio.  I was supposed to help my family, and I failed.”

He crossed his arms.  “Oh, he was goin’ to help.  Was he a photographer, too?” 

“No…”

“So what was he goin’ to do?  Probably take care of the business end, right?  Do you still think that would’ve worked out?  Do you think he could’ve done anything half as helpful as you’ve been, by yourself?  Why did all of you trust this guy you’d never met and didn’t trust you?”

She had no answer to that.  David sighed before running a hand through his hair again; with that sigh the force of his words waned, and when he went on it was in a more even tone. 

“Look, I went down to the morgue yesterday afternoon an’ read about it.  Arthur Polizzi, the victim, he had a couple o’ broken ribs and some head injuries, but he survived.  Know where he is now?”  She shook her head.  Papa had kept up with the aftermath, if only to be able to tell her that Polizzi hadn’t died.  The idea that he might, and that she could be responsible for a man’s death, had been making her sick, so though they didn’t talk about it otherwise, Papa told her that much.  “In jail.  It seems he made a habit of taunting his fellow gamblers.  In ’03 he was playin’ poker at a gambling hall downtown when some o’ the other players took offense at things he said.  After the resulting brawl Polizzi was arrested for incitin’ a riot.  He had a broken nose when they took him to Blackwell’s Island.  Heitor wasn’t the first guy to take a swing at him and he wasn’t the last.  And none of that was your fault.”

Of course David had gone digging; curiosity was his natural response to any situation, and if she wouldn’t satisfy it, he would have had to find something else that would.  That she hadn’t anticipated his research just showed what a fool she was. 

Now, hesitantly, he sat down on the edge of the sofa, a perfectly respectable distance between them, and angled himself to face her.  “I hope you’re not mad that I read up on it.  I just…”

“Couldn’t let it go?”

“Couldn’t let you think that you were responsible for any of it.  And couldn’t let you believe that this’d make me think less of you.”  His frown was pained.

“You may not, but there are plenty of people who would.”  Was he so naïve or oblivious that she had to explain it?  “I’m 25, David, a homely spinster who has to work for her living.”  At that he flinched and looked away.  He didn’t try to reassure her with platitudes the way some people would.  His silence was honest, and she appreciated that; but his tacit agreement still hurt.  “That makes me a laughingstock.”

“To who?”  He looked around, as if searching the room for these detractors.  “Anybody who thinks that about you isn’t worth listenin’ to.”

“Like it or not, it is the prevailing notion.”  Choosing her words with care she went on.  “I’m not sorry I didn’t marry Heitor.  Maybe he would have been as terrible as you think; maybe not.  I’ll never know that now.  And because I didn’t marry him I had to work more in the studio, and I have opportunities I couldn’t have had if I were married, and friends I might not have met.”  David’s eyes softened.  “So I don’t regret that.  What I do regret, and what still shames me, is the disappointment I’ve been to my family.”

“Your grandmother?” he scoffed.  “She can—”

She shook her head.  “Not her, my parents.  If they just knew my future was secure, and that I would be taken care of, that would be a weight off of them.”

“Nobody’s future is certain, Dita.  An’ you can take care of yourself.  It might not be easy, but like you said, you’ve got friends.  People admire you an’ like you an’ want to be around you.  You’re not goin’ to be alone, no matter what.”

His hand had crept across the seat of the sofa.  If she were Les or one of his male friends he would have grabbed her by now, taken hold of her arm or shoulder as proof of his words.  It wouldn’t mean anything, would only be a friendly gesture, and she could use one of those right now.  What might happen, she wondered, swallowing, her heart beginning to speed, if she put her hand just there, next to his?

Her heart could break.  She was a fool, that was true, but she was not that far gone yet.  Her hands remained where they were.

They sat in silence for a moment as if frozen in time.  She could feel him watching her; at length she met his steady gaze.  He knew now.  He knew, and he’d come back, and he seemed not to care.  At last the roiling in her stomach began to settle.  It would take time for it to go away completely, but this was a start. 

“Davey,” she sighed, resigned but not unhappy.  

He watched her stand, though he made no move to rise himself.  “Yeah?” 

“Would you like some coffee?”

His answering grin was brilliant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: ATTABOY DAVEY!!!!!


	116. Dinner Party (19 August 1905)

When Pauline caught her eye she nodded.  Pauline returned the nod; then to Roman and Calvin she announced, “We have an idea.”  It had mostly been her idea, to tell the truth, but Hana had agreed with it.  If they presented a united front, the boys would have little choice but to go along with it.

“Ah, great,” Roman grumbled.  From under his arm Hana couldn’t see him roll his eyes, but it was safe to assume he had.  She poked a finger into his side.

Pauline spared him a brief glare before going on.  “We want to invite Miss Cook to dinner with us.  The four of us,” she clarified.

“That’s nice of you.”  Calvin already had Pauline’s hand in his, their fingers intertwined; now he smiled down at her.  His approval made her glow.

“The four of us and David,” Hana added.  Calvin’s smile faltered, and she felt Roman’s groan against her side.

“Here I thought ya were bein’ friendly,” he said, “when really you’re just lookin’ for a chance to spy on ’em.”  He shook his head.  At the same time he gave a reproachful tug on the braid whose end was looped around his finger.

The tug didn’t hurt at all, though his accusation stung a little.  “You spy on them all the time!”  And he reported to her every time they came in; if that wasn’t spying, she didn’t know what was.

“That’s different,” he sniffed.  “They come in where I’m workin’.  I don’t invite them just so I can keep an eye on ’em.”

“And that’s not why we want to invite them, either,” Pauline said.  She didn’t sound as defensive as she sometimes did with Roman; Hana was proud of her.  “Miss Cook is talented and interesting.  We’d like to get to know her better.”

Actually, Hana found her a little intimidating.  While undeniable, Miss Cook’s skill and sophistication meant that she seemed closer to Miss Grace in status than to Hana herself.  Still, Hana was willing to try to get to know her better, especially since Pauline was so keen on the idea.

“You’d like to get free pictures out o’ her,” Roman muttered, just loud enough for Pauline to hear.  Her nostrils flared, but Calvin cut in before she could retort.

“You want David and Miss Cook to come to dinner with Hana an’ Skitts, and you an’ me.  The two o’ them and two other couples.  Doesn’t that seem a little obvious?  Like we’re tryin’ to set them up?” Calvin asked.  “From what Tumbler says they’ve been spendin’ a lot of time together, but that doesn’t mean they’re…”  He sketched a vague shape in the air with his free hand.  “Involved.”

Roman snorted.  “Yeah.  ’Cause fellas spend a lot o’ time with girls they don’t want to smooch.”  As if to prove his point—or maybe because he was reminded of his ability to do so—he turned his head to kiss Hana’s temple.

For good reason, Pauline chose to respond to Calvin’s statement rather than Roman’s.  “You’re right.  We don’t know.  That’s why we wanted to ask your opinions.  If all of us are there, we thought it might be too much for Miss Cook by herself; she doesn’t know any of us that well, and we all know each other, and she might feel left out.”

“But if it was just Pauline and Calvin, or Roman and me, that would seem more like we are pushing them together.”

Calvin nodded.  “Yeah.  An’ if we just asked Miss Cook alone, she might not feel comfortable.  If Dave’s there then she knows somebody’s on her side.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem of them not thinking that we’ve set them up, though.”

“You sure that’s not what you’re doin’?” Roman needled.

Pauline made an affronted noise and seemed about to bluster something back at him.  But then, after lowering her eyes and taking a deep breath, her face grew grave.  “I’d like to be her friend,” she said quietly.  “I think she doesn’t have many of those.  But I am blessed with an abundance of them, so why not share?”  She smiled at each of them in turn—not her usual sunny expression nor her façade of professional courtesy, but a wan smile that showed her for what she was: a teenager who’d lost many people she liked but still felt herself rich in friendship.  Calvin squeezed her hand.

“Sorry, Pauline,” Roman said, contrite.

“But, darling, if you want to be her friend, why not invite her for lunch, or a coffee break?  You’re practically neighbors at work.”

“You forget that not everyone has as flexible a schedule as a newsboy.  In ten minutes I could just get across the street, see if she’s free, get to Tibby’s, order a cup of coffee, and drink it, but then I’d have to rush back out again without any chance to talk.  And when I’ve gone over to see if she wanted to join me for lunch, she’s been busy with clients.”  She gave a helpless shrug, and they all sat silent for a moment.

“How can we invite her an’ make her feel like she’s not goin’ to be interrogated, but also like we’re not setting them up?”

“We could invite Tumbs an’ Les,” Roman suggested with a shrug.

“And Gussie,” Hana put in.  “She knows Miss Cook, too.”

Pauline briefly brightened.  “It couldn’t possibly be a date with the children there.”

“Who’re you callin’ children?” Roman teased, despite his earlier apology.  She merely let out a sigh while Calvin raised his eyebrows at Roman in warning.

“Where will we have it?”  As Hana had intended it to, the question drew their attention away from sniping at each other.

“Our place,” Pauline said, “but we’ll probably need to borrow a few chairs and maybe some other things from you.”  Hana nodded.  The Kollárs only had enough plates and such for themselves, with few extra for entertaining guests, and their apartments didn’t leave much room for furniture that wasn’t used every day.  Mama and Tatko wouldn’t mind spending the evening on the settee.

“Alright, so we got that figured out,” Roman said, “but what’re we goin’ to  _eat_?”

That issue took longer to settle.  It soon became apparent the elegant, intimate occasion Pauline had envisioned was not to be.  Even if they pooled their money, they wouldn’t be able to provide much of a classy meal for nine people.  At their dinners Mrs. Roth liked to serve quail and Mrs. Vande Kerk lamb; this party would be lucky to have any kind of named meat, let alone an individual portion for each diner.

Pauline nixed the suggestions that had been favorites at Duane Street, things that were easy to make for a crowd but lacked a certain panache.  Hana didn’t think any of the dishes that came to her mind would be met with approval; things like  _kapustové halušky_  or  _guláš_  were time-consuming to make and perhaps more suited to gatherings of her fellow countrymen than a mixed group like this one would be.  Pauline’s frustration mounted with every no until Roman, starting to sound desperate himself, tossed out, “Tumbler loves spaghetti.”

Her face stilled, her eyes distant.  Sensing progress, Calvin ventured, “It’d be inexpensive, and easy to make a lot of.”

Hana all but held her breath as Pauline considered.  At length, sounding more resigned than happy, she said, “I’ll need a red tablecloth”; Calvin sealed the negotiations with a kiss on her cheek and a promise to provide one.

With the menu settled they decided it would be best to check their guests’ schedules before naming a date.  Pauline and Calvin said goodnight and made their way down from the roof, doubtless wanting a few minutes alone together before he had to leave.  When they’d gone Roman’s arm slipped from its perch around her shoulders to circle her waist.  “Why do we got to do this?” he murmured into her hair.

“To spend time with our friends, and to make new ones.”  She covered his hand with hers.  “It will be nice to know more about Miss Cook.  And I like talking with David.”

“Dave’s a good guy,” he admitted, “even if he is Jack’s best friend.”

“All of your friends are good guys, I think.  And so are you.”  She dropped her head onto his shoulder and snuggled into him.  He rested his cheek against the top of her head.

“I don’t know about that,” he said quietly, “but thanks,  _miláčku_.”

* * *

It would be easier to decide when to have the dinner if they knew when their guests were able to attend.  They got a message to Les and he met them near Hana’s trolley stop one evening.  His curiosity was apparent as they strolled toward their building, though once Pauline began to explain, his enthusiasm was not overwhelming.  Still, he listened politely as she said, “We wanted to ask when you thought a good date would be to have it.  When are you and David free?”

He made a show of patting his pockets before joking, “Gee, I didn’t bring my social calendar.”  Even so, it only took a moment’s thought before he answered.  “The ninth and tenth are no good; that’s Tish’a B’Av, so we’re fasting.  O’ course Friday an’ Saturday are out.  And the sixteenth’s Tu B’Av.”  He shook his head, eyes closed as if in pain.  “Don’t have it that day.”

The two young women exchanged puzzled glances before Pauline turned back to him.  “Can I ask why not?”

Les made a face.  “Tish’a B’Av is like a day of mourning, but Tu B’Av is…kind o’ the opposite, really.  It has to do with bein’ able to get married.  Dave might think somethin’ was up if you invited him to a party that day.  Especially if a single Jewish lady he’d been spendin’ time with was there, too.”  He gave them a significant look, one that sent a bolt of guilt directly into Hana’s stomach.  If Pauline felt the same way it didn’t show as she suggested the Sunday after the holidays, with the following Sunday as an alternate in case Miss Cook was busy.

Les nodded along.  “Do ya want me to ask them about it?” he offered.

“No, thank you.  We’ll take care of the invitations.”  She graced him with an angelic smile.  “Thank you for your help.”  Hana could have sworn he was blushing as he bid them good evening. 

In the ensuing days, while Hana and Calvin were at work further uptown, Pauline and Roman delivered the invitations.  Roman reported, “I told Dave that Shiv wanted to have a dinner party and they were invited.  He got that look he gets when he thinks somebody else’s tryin’ to be smart, so I told him that we were inviting people Miss Cook already knew so she wouldn’t feel like the center of attention, an’ that that was the one an’ only reason he was on the guest list.  So he said he guessed he’d come, an’ did I want him to ask Judith.”  Roman smirked, smug.

Pauline’s invitation, meanwhile, was met with less suspicion—probably because it had been delivered with more tact.  “Miss Cook said she’d be happy to come.  I think she was relieved to hear that there would be people she knew there.  And she asked if she could bring anything, so I said dessert.”

With that course taken care of, Pauline drew up a shopping list for the rest: pasta, tomatoes and olive oil and oregano, loaves of bread and a hunk of cheese.  Roman would provide a recipe for the sauce—though not from a cookbook; Crutchy probably had a recipe, he said, or he could ask Itey or even Race in a pinch—and Hana would help make it.  Calvin would handle the decorations, and Pauline would oversee everything. 

On Sunday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Hermann were banished from their home.  Having already studied the recipe Roman had recorded Hana now chopped and simmered, tomato seeds splattering her apron and sweat beading on her forehead as she stood over the stove, listening to the lighthearted bickering in the sitting room. 

A long mahogany table dominated the Vande Kerks’ dining room.  For formal occasions it was covered with a snowy damask tablecloth, matching napkins at each place; the plates were porcelain, the cutlery sterling silver, the wineglasses crystal. 

Down in lower Manhattan, on the other hand, Roman and Calvin had maneuvered Mrs. Hermann’s sewing table next to their kitchen table.  As the former was rectangular and the latter round they fit together awkwardly.  Calvin’s promised tablecloth, dotted with white wax and faded with time, couldn’t entirely cover both tables.  The chairs arranged around them were similarly mismatched, several of them brought from the Kollárs’ apartment, just like the handful of forks and knives Pauline returned with.  As she began setting the places Calvin ducked out; when he returned it was with a bunch of flowers, dark red carnations surrounded by clouds of snowy baby’s breath.  Pauline fetched a jug of water to put them in, which he set at the center of the table; then, having plucked free a spray of baby’s breath, he deftly wove it into her hair and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  She lit up, her adoring gaze following him as he joined her in setting the table. 

Hana paused, wooden spoon in hand, to look over her shoulder at what they’d cobbled together.  Though there would be room enough for everyone and that was the most important thing, she couldn’t help but feel a little sad for her friend.  Pauline had wanted so much for this to be a nice evening, to show that she was mature enough to give a real adult party.  What she was getting was a potluck of parts and a motley assortment of guests.  Hana watched her hold in a sigh, watched her smile sadly when she thought no one could see.  Then she raised her chin, and they both got back to work.

By Pauline’s design Tumbler and Gussie showed up first—she’d told them to be there earlier, so they wouldn’t rush in at the last minute and upset the sauce into Miss Cook’s lap—with Les trailing them.  Tumbler made a beeline for the pot of sauce, lifting the lid and sniffing deeply.  Before she could stop him, he dipped the spoon in and lifted it to his mouth.  His slurp was followed by a frown.  “How much garlic did ya put in?” he demanded. 

“None.”

“None.”  He dropped the lid again with a clatter and stared up at her, utterly unimpressed.  She met his gaze, though her stomach shriveled.  No one else had tried the sauce yet; she’d thought it tasted fine, but maybe she was wrong.  Though matchmaking was  _not_  the point of the evening, if anyone happened to decide that they wanted to steal a kiss on the way home from the party, garlic would only stand in the way.  But maybe she was wrong not to follow the recipe, inexact as it was, more closely; maybe she was about to singlehandedly ruin Pauline’s party.  Oblivious to the turmoil he had caused her Tumbler shook his head and left the kitchen; in his wake Hana hollered for Pauline or Roman.

The latter stuck his head into the kitchen; when his mouth opened to ask what she needed she inserted a spoonful of sauce.  “How is it?” she demanded.

His face contorted, mouth still open wide as he sucked in air to try to cool the burning sauce.  It was accompanied by a sound that was almost certainly a curse word, though it was distorted as he tried not to move his mouth, trapping the heat inside.  “I’ hot,” he replied with a glare just as fiery as the sauce.

“But how does it taste?”

“How can I tell when my tongue’s burned?” he snapped before stalking out again.  She glowered after him, dipping the spoon into the sauce and carrying it directly to her mouth; she, too, nearly swore as a chunk of tomato scalded her tongue.  

At first no one answered the knock at the door.  Hana looked around: Roman and Calvin were nowhere to be seen—probably sharing one last cigarette before the party began—and Pauline had gone into the bedroom to change into her hostess’ outfit.  Les and Tumbler were doing nothing more pressing than teaching Gussie a card trick, but could not, it seemed, be bothered to get up; so Hana hurried through the apartment to open the door.  As she did David was tucking his cap under his arm; Miss Cook stood just behind him.  “ _Dobrý večer_ ,” Hana greeted them.  David responded with that satisfied smile that meant he’d understood and a “ _Dobry wieczór_ ” of his own.  She stepped aside to let them in.  As Miss Cook swept past, tall and elegant and smelling faintly of some spicy cologne, Hana realized that she was still wearing her tomato-spattered apron.

“Hana, you’ve met Judith before, right?”  David gestured to Miss Cook, who held a white bakery box and wore a tight, determined smile.  Hana nodded and was just opening her mouth to say hello when Pauline emerged, looking cool and fresh and collected.  She beamed at the new arrivals.  “Miss Cook, welcome!  I’m so glad you’re here.”  She took the box that Miss Cook offered.  “Hello, David.”

“Thank you for having me,” Miss Cook said.  Her eyes skittered from Pauline to Hana and then back; Hana shrank back, twisting her hands in her apron.  “Please call me Judith.”  Her smile was not as bright as Pauline’s, but it seemed sincere.  Then she turned away to greet the younger guests who called her name from the sitting room, and Roman and Calvin crowded in behind David, slapping his back, and Hana shut the door behind them and slipped the apron over her head.

At a real dinner party the guests of honor would be seated next to the host and hostess.  In this case, such rigid adherence to the rules would maroon Judith and David at opposite corners of the table; they wouldn’t be that far from each other, but the rules could bend for a friend’s comfort.  So Pauline sat Roman at her right, with Judith next to him and Les on Judith’s other side.  David ended up sitting more or less across from Judith, with Gussie and Tumbler to his right and Hana to his left.  Though he sat at the head of the table, next to Hana, Calvin had taken one of the shorter chairs, and so was not so imposing as he could have been.

When everyone was seated, Pauline doled out the pasta and Hana the sauce.  Everyone else passed around the basket of bread.  Once every plate was full, Pauline gazed over her guests beneficently; “Enjoy,” she told them, and floated down to her seat.

For a few moments there was only the sound of eating.  Hana peeked at Judith; she looked far cooler than Hana felt, though Judith’s collar was buttoned up to the neck and her sleeves to the wrist.  Of course, Judith likely hadn’t been cooking in a tenement room all afternoon, and her deep blue blouse looked to be linen.

As the silence stretched, Hana saw Pauline shoot a pointed look down the table at Calvin.  His eyebrows rose in return, and he shrugged.  Roman grinned at the exchange.  In the end it was Les who sparked the conversation.  “How long d’ya think it’ll be before T.R. settles things up in Portsmouth?” he asked the table at large.  Hana knew that the president was meeting with emissaries from Russia and Japan in order to negotiate an end to the war between them; everyone else, down to Tumbler and Gussie, seemed to know much more than that about the situation.

“If anybody could get them to reach an agreement, it’s Roosevelt,” Calvin said.  “And if he’s in favor of peace, it can’t be worth fightin’ about.”

“Or fightin’ against him,” Roman added.  “Think o’ that, tryin’ to go against Teddy.”  Then, as an aside to his friends, he asked, “Did ya ever wonder what advice he gave Spot Conlon in that carriage?”

“Maybe Spot had some advice for him,” David suggested.  The other boys snickered at that idea.

In addition to being the least informed, Hana had the strongest foreign accent and, of the adults, the most menial job.  She had no doubt that one day Pauline would be hosting lovely parties in her own sparkling dining room; now, for the first time, Hana doubted that she’d be there.  As a guest, that was, rather than someone hired to clean up afterward.  Her shoulders rounded forward.

From the head of the table Calvin said, “Judith, the sign outside the studio says you do daguerreotypes.  Does anybody ask for those anymore?”

It was the perfect question to engage her: it drew on her knowledge and experience without touching on her personal life.  She wiped her mouth daintily on her napkin, shaking her head as she did.  “Only very rarely,” she said.  “They’re old-fashioned, now, and more expensive than a plain photograph.  And it’s harder to color a daguerreotype.”  She grinned across the table at Tumbler.

“What’s the difference between the two?” Roman asked.  Judith launched into an explanation, one that included words like “substrate” and that Hana only just followed, though everyone else at the table was nodding as if they understood completely.  Her eyes shifted to Hana, and the corners of her mouth raised slightly.  Hana returned a wan smile before her eyes dropped to her plate.  Despite her earlier aloofness Judith answered their questions readily, her eyes bright as she spoke; Hana supposed she should be happy about that.

A short time later the conversation turned to the recent bakers’ strike.  “They were just askin’ for shorter hours and cleaner quarters,” David explained to Pauline, who’d asked what the strikers wanted.  “Not to spend three-quarters of every day sweatin’ in a room full o’ ovens.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable,” she agreed. 

“It’s never unreasonable to want the chance to earn a living wage without killin’ yourself in the process.”  David was keen and insistent.

“But killing someone else is fine?” Judith asked.  “Five thousand people having a riot and fighting with the police is reasonable?”

“Spoken like somebody who’s never had to fight for their livelihood.  No offense,” he added quickly.

Undeterred Judith leaned toward him to insist, “Resorting to violence can’t be the best way to achieve change.”

Roman and Calvin exchanged sardonic glances at that, while David mimicked her posture, setting his elbows on either side of his plate as he replied.  “Sometimes it’s the only way.  You think the people in power want to give up profit just so a bunch o’ replaceable workers can get a little more rest and a couple more pennies?”

“That sounds awfully cynical.  Don’t you believe that there might be some shred of goodness in business owners?”

Seven pairs of eyes darted between the two as they talked.  Judith’s tone held a note of playfulness, though her question was serious; David’s eyes were focused on her as he replied.  There was no question that she was at greater ease with him than with any of the other adults there.  But while her expression sometimes softened as she watched David, it did the same with Les.  And she certainly didn’t appear as starry-eyed over him as Hana probably did over Roman.  That wasn’t really a fair comparison, though, she thought, sparing a glance at her sweetheart, who was leaning back in his chair, one arm hooked over the back as he observed the interaction.  His tongue seemed to have recovered from its earlier burn, she thought tartly.  All the same, though, a dime novel writer might say that Judith was not indifferent to David.

But not everyone at the table was happy with the attention he was paying her.  “Davey,” Gussie demanded, with a displeased expression and a tug at his sleeve that nearly dragged his arm into her plate.

He glanced down at her.  “Yeah, Gussie?”

“Want to hear a poem I learned in school?”

Tumbler’s face dropped into his palm.  “Gus,” he muttered, “ya don’t have to show off.  Nobody’s goin’ to buy a paper from you.”

She ignored him, keeping her gaze trained on David.  He hid a smile and nodded.  “Sure, go ahead.”

She stood, her face just visible above the dishes on the table, and waited in patience and evident satisfaction as everyone adjusted their seats to see her.  After a delicate clearing of her throat she began reciting in a high, warbling sing-song:

_I wandered lonely as a cloud_  
_That floats on high o’er vales and hills,_  
_When all at once I saw a crowd,_  
_A host, of golden daffodils;_  
_Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  
_ _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

The poem went on for three more verses, each delivered in the same manner.  Gussie faltered over the word “jocund,” for which Hana could hardly blame her, but otherwise made no mistakes—or none that she, unfamiliar with the words, noticed.  It was a pretty image, Hana thought, the lake and cloud and bright flowers, and her enjoyment of the poem was probably further evidence of her lack of sophistication.

Their applause pattered around the table as she curtsied.  “Want me to do another one?” she asked David.

“No, I think that was…fine.  Thanks.”  Gussie smiled at him and sank back into her seat with a contented sigh.

Pauline and Hana cleared the table quickly, the former waving off Judith’s offer to help; they simply dumped the plates and cutlery into the sink.  Then Pauline took out the dessert plates and Judith’s contribution, a selection of little coconut mounds and almond biscuits, while Hana stayed in the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.  She listened to the company laughing in the other room and lingered in the kitchen even after the water had boiled.

After Tumbler had put away two of each kind of cookie, he pushed back from the table.  “I think it’s time for ya to go home, Gus,” he announced.  She protested, her eyes swimming and lower lip poking out, but he was deaf to her pleas to stay.  “Nah, you heard what your grandpop said.  Ya got to be home before it’s all the way dark.  Come on.”  He urged her up with a waving hand.  

“Thank you, Miss Pauline,” Gussie piped sweetly.  “I had a lovely time.”

“Yeah, thanks, Pauline.”  Tumbler added a quick kiss to her cheek.  Smiling, Pauline thanked them for coming as Hana’s lips pressed tightly together.

Had Tumbler ever thanked her so enthusiastically?  There was no doubt that Pauline was prettier, but Hana had been much more generous with him, and for longer.  He took her for granted.  The ache of sadness at the realization was no surprise, but the spike of anger that accompanied it was.  It made sense, of course, for a young man who paid little mind to anyone to take her for granted; but a bitter suspicion that her best friend did as well swelled in her throat, making it hard to swallow.

Again Les went with them.  If David thought it strange that his brother wasn’t waiting to go home with him, he didn’t say anything; he just told Les he’d see him later, and managed to smile at Gussie even with Tumbler making kissing faces at him behind her.  Once they and their boisterous good nights were gone it was much quieter in the apartment.  Hana nibbled at a macaroon as the others discussed how long the yellow fever outbreak in New Orleans might go on until Pauline suggested they change the subject to something less morbid.  They chatted for a while longer; when the sky outside was nearly dark Judith up at the clock and rose. 

“I’d better start home myself,” she said as the rest of them stood.  “Thank you for having me.”  She turned her shy smile to each of them, one after the other. 

“It was our pleasure,” Pauline said.  “Thank you for coming.  And you, David.”

They all moved toward the door, where handshakes and farewells were exchanged, promises to see each other again soon extracted.  The moment the door was closed Hana returned to the table, collecting plates and coffee cups through a rapidly descending haze of fatigue.  She slipped the apron over her head again and rolled up her sleeves; in the other room Pauline was happily congratulating herself and the rest of them for a successful evening.  Thankfully, the sound of furniture moving soon drowned her out, and Hana focused on what she did best: scrubbing.  

She didn’t pause when Pauline came in, though Hana felt her neck tense.  Pauline stretched an arm around her and rested her head against Hana’s shoulder.  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could.”  Her voice was cool, yet it trembled.  “The sauce was not very hard to cook.”

She straightened and looked at Hana, gaze level and unflinching.  Hana didn’t so much as look away from the dish she was washing; the extent of her selfishness became evident then, and she felt guilty and embarrassed.  Her chin drooped toward her chest as she waited to hear what Pauline had to say.

At length her friend spoke.  “Yes, I suppose I could have done it without you,” she decided, tone even.  It softened as she went on, “But I wouldn’t have.  It wouldn’t have been worth it if you weren’t here.”  Hana looked up to see her smiling.

“Leave that,” she said, “I can finish it.  Take these and go rest.  And thank you, Hana.”  Pauline put the box of cookies into her hands, kissed her cheek, and steered her toward the door.  Hana heard Roman coming after her, but did not stop and wait for him. 

He caught up as she was putting the box of cookies on the table, chairs already restored around it.  Lying there was a single carnation next to a sheet of paper covered in lines of poetry.  “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” and the name William Wordsworth headed the page.  

“What’s this?”  She did not pick it up. 

“I knew ya’d like that poem Gussie did.  Dave told me the name, an’ Shiv had it in a book.  I’d give ya some daffodils, too, but I think most o’ the flower shops are closed now.”  As he spoke his voice lost the brash edge it so often took on around his friends.  “I know ya miss this sometimes,” he said, drumming his fingers on the paper, “bein’ out in the country like he talks about.  But I never want ya to feel lonely.  I never want to make you feel that way.”

The contrition on his face, the furrow between his eyebrows and the gnawing at his lip, showed that he knew he had made her feel that way, no matter what he said.  Her voice was even as she told him how invisible she’d felt that evening, how unappreciated, how stupid; it wasn’t until he reached up to run a thumb across her cheek that she realized there were tears trickling out of her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured when she was done.

“I know.”

“None o’ that’s true.”

“I know.”  

Haltingly he reached for her hand; she let him take it.  They sat on the settee, hand in hand, and talked quietly, and when he’d kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her and left for the night, she picked up the poem he’d copied out for her and read it over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kapustové halušky = dumpling-noodles (noodle-dumplings?) topped with cabbage
> 
> guláš = meat stew, traditionally cooked outdoors over a fire
> 
> Dobrý večer / Dobry wieczór = good evening
> 
> The current events mentioned are all things that were really going on in August 1905. The yellow fever epidemic had pretty much peaked by this point, though the last case wouldn’t be reported until November; the New York papers ran tallies of the statistics about how many were infected and had died. Roosevelt went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize for his part in ending the Russo-Japanese War. And it’s not specified in the story, but the bakers who were on strike were all Jewish and worked in the Lower East Side.
> 
> JACK: I ain’t sure if I should be congratulatin’ these folks for not talkin’ about nudes an’ corpses at the table, or suggestin’ they try it next time. I mean, it worked for me an’ Sarah.


	117. After Dinner (19 August 1905)

“Did ya have a good time?”

“I did.”  After the close quarters of the little dining room, the evening air felt almost cool and nearly fresh.  Whether or not Les and Tumbler had spent the day in the sun, selling newspapers and working up a sweat, they’d certainly smelled that way.  Judith took a deep breath, feeling the breeze that had barely drifted through the windows upstairs now tickle the back of her neck.  Then, rather than make some intelligent comment about the party they’d just left, she blurted, “I don’t think Hana liked me very much.”

David’s nose wrinkled.  “Why d’ya think that?”

“She didn’t say much to me.”  Actually, she hadn’t said much at all.

He let out a short laugh.  “Hana’s one of the few people there who’s never had to yell on a street corner to make a buck.  It’s hard to get a word in edgewise with that group.  She’s just quiet.  I’m sure it was nothin’ against you.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.  The idea that one of the young ladies might not like her was more troubling than she would have thought.

“I am,” he said firmly.  “Look, Hana’s nice.  I can’t say much for her taste in men—”  He grimaced melodramatically, then grinned at her chuckle.  “—but Skittery’s been downright cheerful since they’ve been together, so that just goes to show that she’s a good person.  There’s no reason she wouldn’t like ya.”

It seemed that David was more naïve than he thought himself to be, especially when it came to women.  The ability to make snap judgments and to hold grudges based on perceived behaviors was a forte of her sex.  Maybe David was right; but maybe he wasn’t.  What would it mean if someone he thought was a good person didn’t like her?  She swallowed and shifted the subject. 

“Pauline and Calvin seem well-matched.”  Like they were part of a set, both of them genteel—as genteel as one could be, living in a tenement—and well-dressed.  But beyond that shallow similarity they seemed to share a spirit, a way of looking at the world.  Pauline’s adept handling of hostess duties made it clear that she aspired to a life greater than the one she had; Calvin’s neat suit and good manners were not just window-dressing, but building blocks for more to come.  Roman had joked about Pauline being young, but she was better prepared for the future she imagined than Judith felt she was for any sort of future.

In response David only hummed in a noncommittal sort of way.  So she went on, “And Gussie is quite taken with you…”

His groan could have starred onstage at the Hippodrome.  “It’s only temporary,” he insisted, as if trying to convince himself.  “She’ll move on sooner or later.  Hopefully sooner.”

“But I thought you’d like to have someone recite poetry to you, Davey,” she teased.

“I—”  He paused, mouth open, and his eyebrows drew together for a moment.  “It never crossed my mind,” he said. 

What had crossed his mind when it came to the ideal young woman?  Patience and a maternal instinct like his mother’s?  The good humor and good sense that his sister had?  Or maybe something different: the wide eyes, white dresses, and innocent smile of an ingenue?  No—she nearly shook her head right then and there—no, he wouldn’t want someone unaware.  Some men wanted a woman pliable enough to mold, to shape into something worth possessing and showing off.  But David wasn’t one of those men.  He would want someone with ideas of her own and a voice to share them.  He deserved someone with as quick a mind as he had, someone as kind and generous, someone—

There was no use denying it.  Anyone who put so much thought into another’s potential mate had a vested interest in the subject.  Gussie wasn’t the only one infatuated with David.  No matter what the songs said, though, Judith’s heart didn’t leap and race and skip when she saw him; instead it stilled.  For years she had wanted nothing more than she wanted color—had longed for it, dreamed of it, ached within and without for it.  At times it had all but overwhelmed her.  For now the way she felt about David remained a pale shade of that desire.  For now, between the corner and her front door, she would not entertain doubt or self-consciousness.  There would be time for that later, in the future for which she was unprepared.  For now she was certain and calm. 

“I’m glad we went tonight,” he said.  They stood in the hallway outside the Cooks’ apartment; his voice was low, his cap swept off, and his eyes the blue she would never forget, with or without the Lumière brothers’ help.  


	118. A Night on the Town (24 August 1905)

“Sure,” she heard her father say, “she’ll like that.”  Like what? she wondered; though Calvin had had few ideas so far that she hadn’t liked.  She pushed open the door to find her beau dressed in a dark suit she didn’t recognize, complete with a bow tie.  Her mouth went dry.

He turned to her and, without preamble, said, “Go put on your nicest dress.  Quick, Paulie.”  

That would be her cranberry taffeta.  It had been a custom order the summer before last, and all of the girls in the shop had quietly (or not so quietly) coveted it.  By the time it was finished the customer who’d ordered it had found herself in the family way; it didn’t fit  when she came to pick it up, but her glowing smile said she hardly minded leaving it.  The dress had hung on the rack through fall and winter, and by the following summer, when it was no longer quite in style, the manager finally agreed to let one of the staff have it for a discount.  As with Cinderella’s slipper, each girl tried to fit into it, holding her breath as the buttons were done up, letting it out in a sigh as the beautiful gown was peeled off, having been proven too narrow at the hips or too long in the bodice or too snug in the bust.  In the end it was Janet Carlisle whom the dress fit best.  But Janet had no need for such a fine dress, she said, and ceded it to the runner-up: Pauline.

Who now hurried to the wardrobe and pulled the dress from its muslin bag.  Her heart was rushing from the sight of Calvin looking so debonair, and her mind working just as fast as she stripped off her day dress and considered the possibilities for where they could be going.  The theater—a real play, not just vaudeville?  Or a dance, maybe.  She shimmied into the dress, noting with pleasure that she filled out the top better than she had the last time she tried it on; then, hands setting to work on the button at the small of her back, she called out, “Darling, what shoes should I wear?”

“Anything’s fine.”  The hint of impatience in his voice sent shivers down her back and set her pulse humming even faster.  She couldn’t quite reach the top button and abandoned the attempt in favor of pulling on a pair of shoes.  It took a precious few moments to smooth her hair into a pompadour more exaggerated than the one wore by day; then she pulled a shawl out of the chest.  A glance in the mirror confirmed what she already knew: that the dress’ neckline, revealing skin that was usually concealed by buttons all the way to the neck, demanded a necklace.  Her cameo on a black velvet ribbon would have to do; she tied it, gave her reflection one last look and a smile, and swept out of the bedroom.

If he wanted her to look nice, she was more than happy to oblige.

Calvin drew in an audible breath when she appeared.  She crossed the room to him and then presented her back, saying over her shoulder, “Do up the last button for me, would you please?”

The button was between her shoulder blades.  Pauline could feel his breath on her neck just before his knuckles brushed her skin; she tried her best not to shiver at the sensations, at the warmth of him behind her and the scent of his cologne.  The second it took him to slip the button through its loop passed by far too quickly.  But before he stepped back, and before she turned, he murmured, “You look stunning.”  

She spun (with a very satisfactory swish of taffeta) and shot him a smirk.  Then she took his arm, kissed her father, and they set off swiftly.

When they reached the street her jaw dropped open at the sight of a two-wheeled hansom cab waiting in front of the building.  The rare sight had attracted the attention of many of the neighborhood’s other denizens.  Her amazement was all the greater when Calvin pulled her toward the cab.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Faster than walkin’,” he said.  He raised her arm and she stepped into the cab; though she could hardly believe what was happening she still had the presence of mind to tuck her skirt safely around her legs.  Calvin slid in next to her and rapped the roof to tell the driver they were ready to go.  Then he settled back, slipping his arm around her shoulders.  She was glad he was holding her when the cab jerked into motion. 

She hid that relief as she turned to him.  “Will you tell me where we’re going in such a hurry?”

He smiled, looking past the horse to the traffic beyond.  “No.”  His fingertips stroked the bare skin of her arm. 

“Calvin!”

At that he deigned to look at her.  “It’s a surprise.”

“Clearly,” she snorted.

“So just trust me, alright?  I hope you’re goin’ to enjoy it.”  His fingers continued their progress up and down her arm, but just as tangibly she felt his eyes trace the line from her shoulder to her collarbone and up her neck.  Their eyes locked.  

“It doesn’t matter where we go,” he said, “you’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”

From anyone else it would have been a mere line, but Calvin Angier did not lie.  She melted against him, and spent the rest of their ride snuggled into his side.  It was easy to feel special when you were riding in a carriage, dressed in your finest and seated next to your handsome, thoughtful beau.  And even if the breeze in your face did smell of horse, it was cooler than the air in a crowded trolley.

The cab pulled to a stop outside an elegant brownstone.  As Calvin paid the driver Pauline watched a matron in a gorgeous silk gown and pearl necklace climb the stairs.  A uniformed attendant opened the door for her at the top with a little bow, and she disappeared inside.  Pauline took Calvin’s outstretched hand without tearing her eyes away from the door.

“Who lives here?” she breathed when she’d stepped out of the cab.

“No idea.  Come on.”  He started toward the steps.

A mysterious cab ride was one thing, but this was another altogether.  She dug her heels in.  “Tell me what’s going on right now.  Please.  So I don’t embarrass myself.”

“Mr. Hendricks was invited to this—it’s a string quartet concert, by the way.  He couldn’t make it, but he contacted the host and asked if one of his employees could come instead, if he personally vouched for him.”  Pauline raised a hand to her mouth.  He reached into his jacket and produced an invitation, showing her their names in elegant script.

She smiled as warmth filled her chest.  “That’s wonderful, Calvin.  I’m so proud of you.”  He didn’t work so hard, didn’t excel at his job just for his manager’s approval; he was conscientious and intelligent and courteous by nature and by upbringing.  But earning that approval, and in such a definitive fashion, was a sign that things were going right for him.  He deserved more than this, she knew.  He deserved something like the life he’d once had, comfortable and happy and safe.  She couldn’t restore what he’d lost, but she would do everything in her power to help him reach the kind of life he wanted.

There was genuine contrition in his eyes as he looked down at her.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier in the day.  The invitation only came this afternoon and I couldn’t get away to send a note.”

She squeezed his arm and gazed up at him.  “It’s fine.  We’re here now.  And I won’t let you down.”

“Of course not, darling.”  He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.  “Now, shall we?”

At the top of the steps he presented their invitation to the doorman; his eyes flicked over it, but his expression remained otherwise immobile.  “Welcome, Miss Hermann, Mr. Angier,” he said, opening the door.  They murmured their thanks and then they were inside.

If only she had Hana’s experience being in fine homes!  That would make it easier not to gawk.  Pauline was not so inured, and did her best to catch glimpses out of the corners of her eyes as they proceeded down a marble-tiled hallway.  Those glimpses gave her some relief, as they showed that everything was not quite as opulent as she had first assumed.  Oh, the house was far grander than her building, and its ornaments worth more than she’d yet earned in her years of work; but its little imperfections, like peeling wallpaper, made her much more comfortable.  And Calvin looked like he belonged here.

Their destination was the house’s music room—really a diminutive theater—where rows of chairs were nearly filled with audience members.  An usher showed them to a pair of empty seats and handed them programs that revealed not only the musicians’ names and what they would be performing but the identity of their hosts as well.  She had never heard of the Averills, nor would she be able to pick them out of a crowd; still, she felt kindly toward them for allowing Calvin and her to be present.

Soon after they were seated the quartet emerged and took their places on a little raised platform at the front of the room.  A woman who might have been Mrs. Averill rose to introduce them and thank them for being there.  She concluded her brief remarks by saying she hoped everyone enjoyed the music, led some polite applause, and sat.

And then the music began.  No one Pauline knew played an instrument; she mostly heard the organ at church and the music at whatever amusement they attended, and all of that was often accompanied by singing.  But this was something else.  The four instruments produced harmonies sweeter and purer than she had ever heard before.  She sat in rapt silence through pieces by Brahms, Chopin, and Mozart, restraining her applause to match the sedate clapping of her neighbors.  

Then, at a nod from one of the violinists, the quartet slid into a mellifluous waltz.  The rhythm, sprightly yet elegant, slipped into her, making the soles of her feet tingle, and she gasped out an audible “Oh.”  Before she had kept her hands folded demurely in her lap, unwilling to commit any act of impropriety; but now she couldn’t help but reach for Calvin’s hand.  He took it immediately, lacing their fingers together, and the subtle press of his palm against hers felt almost like they were dancing.  The song was over far too soon, and she clapped far too loud at its finish; only then did she look down at the program clutched in her free hand.  Its title was “The Sleeping Beauty Waltz” by P.I. Tchaikovsky—perfect for a fairy-tale princess, or even for a shop girl and her charming prince.

Though the rest of the music was lovely, the waltz had stolen her heart.  Even so, she wished the concert could go on all night.  At its conclusion she clapped as enthusiastically as she dared as the musicians stood and bowed and bowed again.

The rest of the audience began to rise, some chatting with acquaintances, others making straight for the door.  Pauline looked at Calvin; his face was bright, transfigured by the lovely music.  When he noticed her looking he smiled and helped her to her feet.  She kept one hand firmly tucked through his arm as they made their way through the milling audience toward the door.

“Angier?” came a voice from the hall.  They turned to see a shorter gentleman peering up at them through a pair of spectacles; an equally petite woman in an eau de nil dress stood by his side.  He smiled and stuck out his hand.  “Thought that was you.  Good tunes, eh?”

“It was beautiful.”  Once he’d shaken the man’s hand Calvin pulled Pauline forward a step, saying, “Mr. Marcus, this is my sweetheart, Pauline Hermann.  Pauline, this is Sylvester Marcus.  He’s our expert on timepieces.”  That was a somewhat grandiose way of saying he worked at the watch counter.  Then again, Calvin’s store sold some very fine watches, so Mr. Marcus likely deserved the fancy title.  Mr. Marcus introduced his wife, Mariah, and they chatted for a short time; then Mrs. Marcus pointed out that there were refreshments in the drawing room, so they stepped through for strawberries dipped in chocolate, little dishes of raspberry sorbet, delicate cream puffs, and flutes of champagne.  Pauline’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as she saw the table of desserts, but she quickly schooled her expression into something much more blase.  Imagining how Letty would react helped.

Mrs. Marcus was delighted when Pauline complimented her on how well the color of her dress suited her, and in turn remarked on the wonderful cut of Pauline’s dress.  Though she hadn’t heard of C.M. James & Co., she was unsurprised to hear that Pauline worked in a boutique, and said that if her dress was an example of the store’s quality then it would behoove her to pay them a visit.  She snagged a passing woman and made introductions; that woman, upon meeting Pauline and hearing her rapidly-multiplying virtues extolled, waved another woman into the group as well, and soon all were admiring each others’ outfits and twittering about the latest trends.  Pauline felt her face growing warm, and not just from the warmth of the room; hearing herself referred to as “the lovely Miss Hermann” and Calvin “a very promising young man” went to her head almost as much as the sparkling wine did.

Thank goodness for Calvin.  At exactly the right time, just as she was thinking of taking a second glass of champagne, he stayed her with a hand on the small of her back and a smile at the group surrounding her.  “Please excuse us, ladies,” he said, “but we have to be going.”  The assembly graced the pair with their own smiles, some knowing and some indulgent, and hands were shaken all around before they made their way out again.

“Shall I call a cab, Miss Hermann?” Calvin asked when they’d made it to the sidewalk.  “You’re lookin’ pretty flushed.  Think you can make it a couple o’ blocks to the trolley?”

She resisted the rather childish impulse to stick her tongue out at him, as it would only prove his implication that she was tipsy—which she was most assuredly not.  Or if she was, it was from the music and the company as much as the alcohol.  Instead she fluttered her eyelashes at him and said, “I can make it anywhere, as long as you’re with me.”

He rolled his eyes and steered them south.  The evening was still warm, and out here, even in this pleasant neighborhood, the smell of summer in the city lingered.  Pauline thought about the fine house they’d left and how effortlessly Calvin had fit in there, how cool and easy he’d been with the businessmen, and before she could stop herself she asked, “Do you miss living somewhere like that?”

He was silent for a moment, during which she felt clumsy and stupid.  “Yes,” he said at last, “of course.  But I miss it because when I lived in a house like that, my parents were with me.”  Their steps slowed; she looked up at him, her heart welling with sorrow for his loss and admiration for his perseverance.  “I’d sleep on the streets if it meant they were still…still here.”  He swallowed thickly.

She slipped her hand from the crook of his arm and took his hand in her two, cradling it.  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.  “I know that doesn’t take away the pain, but I am.”

They were at a complete stop now, standing under a tree.  His eyes closed; before he opened them he let out a long, slow breath with only a hint of a shudder.  “There’s nothin’ for you to be sorry about.  And I’ll see them again.  I believe that.”  She nodded, thinking for a moment of the friends she hoped to be reunited with.  Then she kissed his hand, as he’d done hers before, and gave him a tender smile.

The solemnity didn’t last long after they’d started again, though; soon she was humming the waltz as best she could remember.  “I take it ya liked the concert,” he remarked.

“I loved it,” she sighed.  “And you’re the dearest man in the world for taking me.  Thank you, Calvin.”  She hugged his arm with a sunny smile up at him.

“It was my pleasure.”  He chuckled.  “I’d ask what your favorite song was, but I could tell it was—”

“That waltz!”  She broke away from him to twirl around on the sidewalk.  “Did you ever hear anything so sublime?”

He grinned.  “I thought I was goin’ to have to hold you down.”

That thought made her knees weak.  The fizzing in her stomach now had nothing to do with the champagne.  She swayed back to his side and grabbed his hands.  “Didn’t it make you want to dance?”

In reply he raised one hand, put the other on her waist, and spun them into a box step.  She gasped, and though her foot fumbled, she caught herself and lifted her hand to its place on his shoulder.  Humming together, they danced down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for gentlegrace on Tumblr


	119. Mush (29 August 1905)

David wasn’t alone outside Tibby’s; the young man with him wore short pants, something that made her feel a stab of envy.  Short pants in this heat would be a relief.

“Hey,” David said.

She ignored the way his smile made her heart bounce in her chest.  “Hello.”

“Buy a copy of the  _World_ , miss?”  The man in short pants proffered a newspaper from the slim stack under his arm.

“Don’t bother, Mush,” David said, tone smug as he elbowed the other, “she only reads the  _Sun_.”  The other jostled David with his elbow in return, muttering something about him being a scab; the insult, as it seemed to be, only made David grin.

“I don’t even need to read it.  David tells me all the news anyway.  Judith Cook,” she said, sticking out her hand.

Despite his size, his grip was gentle.  “Miss Cook!  Your pictures are great.  Do ya got any pirate costumes?  Oh, I’m Mush Meyers, by the way.”

“Mush is an extra-good friend of mine,” David said.

Whatever that meant, both of them took the designation seriously.  Mush nodded solemnly, while David’s smile at him seemed grateful.  At first glance the two couldn’t be more different, David in his suit and Mush in his shirtsleeves; but both of them had ink on their hands.  She suspected their bond ran much deeper than that.

“In that case, why don’t you join us?” she offered.

“You sure?”  His head swiveled from David to her and back.  “I don’t want to…”

“You got someplace better to be?” David challenged, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.  Mush grinned and shook his head.

A voice in her head suggested that she’d invited him as a buffer, that since her postprandial revelation she was scared to be alone with David.  That was nonsense, of course.  There was no reason to be scared of David.  There was the possibility that she would say or do something inept, but that was a possibility she lived with every day.  Their coffee breaks could continue as before, with him none the wiser that anything had changed.  

Mush held open the door for her and she entered, making for a table under one of the ceiling fans.  David waited until she’d taken a seat before he sat, but Mush scraped back his chair and made himself comfortable with little hesitation.  This was different: usually when they met she and David sat facing each other at one of the restaurant’s smaller tables.  The addition of a member to their party threw off her equilibrium as David, having gestured to one of the waiters that they wanted coffees, sat next to her.  The nerves in her entire left side felt newly awakened, and goosebumps threatened to rise on her arms.  Determined to transcend her ignorant animal instincts, she focused her attention across the table at Mush. 

“Now, pirates.  We don’t have any prop weapons, no cutlasses or pistols—”  Though she suspected Mr. Till owned a pair of all too functional handguns that had seen service in the Civil War.  “—but I think we have a tricorn hat hidden away somewhere.  I’m afraid I don’t know much about what else pirates would need.”

Mush just laughed.  “If ya had the hat, Blink would like that.”  Blink was a person, it seemed, not an action.

“Do you have an ocean backdrop?”  David leaned back in his chair so he could see both of them, though the question was directed at her and his eyes were on her.  She was still a little too aware of him, a little too attuned to his movements; as long as they were talking about work, though, she thought she could manage to act normally.  

She shook her head.  “No, no ocean.  But if we use the mottled blue, I could hang some white canvas to look like a sail…”  She drummed her fingers against the tabletop, staring past Mush’s head as she designed the scene.  A coil of rope and a barrel would look nautical—not that she was volunteering to lug a barrel up to the studio.  Their coffees appeared, and each took a sip, with varying levels of satisfaction.

“Medda’s got swords,” Mush said when he’d swallowed.  “Think she’d lend us one?”  Judith wasn’t sure if this portrait was something they’d discussed before, but Mush was certainly excited about it now, elbows planted on the table and eyes bright.  

David smirked at his friend.  “I think it depends on who asked.  You, probably; Blink, not so much.”  Mush chuckled and David continued, “We’ll go in on it together, alright?  His birthday’s comin’ up, right?”  At Mush’s nod he said, “It’ll be a present for him.  I’m sure Miss Cook can find an opening in her schedule for us.”  He turned to her then with eyebrows raised, that smirk still lingering on his lips.

“Oh, you’re sure?  Aren’t you confident.”  She arched one brow right back at him.   _Is this flirting?_  the voice in her head wondered.   _Don’t flirt!_   

Whether it was or not he didn’t seem to mind, and met her eye.  “Confident that a smart businesswoman like you wouldn’t turn down a good opportunity.”

She held his gaze for just a second—a second too long, maybe—before swinging her head back toward Mush.  The smile he’d been wearing straightened out a touch.  “I’d be happy to make an appointment for you if you stop by the studio.”  She smiled and was rewarded with a beaming and entirely friendly smile in return.  He was an attractive, well-built young man, she realized.  And he was kind in a thoughtless way, and energetic, and happy.  Was it strange that her feelings were no more than cordial toward him?  That his presence didn’t inspire the sweet ache that she now knew was a symptom of attraction?  That she preferred David? 

No stranger than letting herself be so fond of someone with little hope that the sentiment would be reciprocated.  She gulped her coffee.

“The Kodak ads make it seem real easy to take pictures, like anybody can do it.  But we saw some o’ the ones Dave made, an’…”  He frowned, though he seemed loath to criticize the other’s artistic efforts too harshly.  “Are ya worried people might stop comin’ to the studio if they can take photographs o’ their friends themselves?”

The insightfulness of the question took her aback, especially as it was paired with Mush’s faint frown of concern.  “I can’t say we haven’t discussed it.  You mentioned the ads—Kodak can afford to advertise in magazines all around the country.  We don’t have that luxury.  Ours is a much smaller market, so yes, anything that cuts into it is a concern.  But,” she went on, lips quirking upward, “David is not unique.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled as Mush chuckled.  Judith flashed him a grin before turning back to Mush. 

“Like him, most people who buy box cameras don’t end up with studio-quality portraits,” she explained.  “So if someone wants to try out photography and take snaps of their friends, the Brownie might be the best choice.  But if they want a professional, artistic portrait…”

“They go to Till & Cook,” Mush finished, smiling.  She spread her hands in agreement.

David glanced between them with a satisfied expression; then his eyes widened and he looked down at his watch.  “Shoot.  Got to run.  I’ll see you two later, alright?”  He stood, putting a hand on her shoulder as he rose.  A jolt ran through her, from her shoulder down, followed by a wave of warmth.  

She managed a weak goodbye that was likely lost under Mush’s more robust farewell.  David finished his coffee in one long pull, slapped some coins on the table, and only then, as he was leaving, did he take his hand from her shoulder.

If this—this constant awareness of another person, this shortness of breath, this pull toward him—was what it was like to be attracted to someone, she wasn’t sure she wanted it.  Had it been anyone else, she wouldn’t think the man worth the trouble.  But that was the point, wasn’t it?  David Jacobs was worth the trouble.

After he’d gone Judith sipped her own coffee to buy time, hoping that when she spoke again her voice would be steady.  Over the rim of her cup she asked Mush, “Do you have to go, too?”

“Nah.”  He shook his head.  “I only got a few o’ the mornin’ edition left.  But if you want me to go, I can,” he added, spine straightening as if preparing to flee, eyes going big and even softer.

“No, no!  You’re welcome to stay.”

He subsided with a shy smile.  “Alright,” he said.  “Ya know, it’s hard to believe that we spend so much time in this square, but we never met ya before.”

“I’m not very sociable.  I spend most of my time in the studio.”  Which wasn’t a place where young people living hand-to-mouth would have much reason to enter.

“It’s nice to see ya out now.  I’m glad we’re gettin’ to meet ya.”

His tone and smile were so genuine and sincere that it was almost hard to believe.  She murmured her thanks.  There followed a silence that threatened to go on much too long, during which she considered and rejected any number of questions as too personal, too banal, or too ignorant.  Finally she gave in to the question that had been on her mind for almost as long as they’d been in Tibby’s: “Why pirates?”

“Blink likes them, an’ he’s my best pal.  I guess ya haven’t met him yet, huh?”  She shook her head.  When he went on, his tone was a little more guarded and careful than before.  “He’s got an eyepatch, like pirates used to have, so he’s always liked stories about them.”  His lowered brows dared her to ask the obvious question, so she didn’t.

“What do you like stories about?”

His expression lightened.  “I like all kinds.  If Jack was readin’ a Western, I liked to hear about that.  Or pirates, or Les with his knights, or Davey’s old Greek fellas.  But if I got a choice, I read Horatio Alger’s books.”  The appeal was obvious.  Alger’s heroes came from humble backgrounds, and by virtue of their hard work and hearts of gold were rewarded with a life better than any they could have imagined.  If only there were more happy endings like that in real life; Mush was a prime candidate for one.  “What do you like readin’?”

Something about the angle at which his head was cocked and his clear interest compelled her to say more than she meant to.  “To tell the truth, I’m not very good at reading.  Some of the letters seem to get mixed up when I look at them.  It takes far too long for me to read anything.”

“Hey, that’s alright,” he said.  He reached across the table to pat her hand, two light thumps before he drew back.  Between that and his understanding expression, she felt oddly reassured.  “Everybody’s got stuff that’s hard for them.  I’m not good at lots o’ things, but my friends help me out.  I bet you got plenty o’ people who’re happy to help you.”  He smiled encouragingly.

Of course, getting help meant admitting that you needed it.  She tended to prefer avoiding her problems, and anyone who might find out about them.  But she also knew that Mother and Papa and Mr. Till and even David would come to her aid if she asked.  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, voice subdued.

“So what kind o’ stories do ya like hearin’ about?”

“About distant places.  Ones so far away that I probably won’t ever get to travel to them myself.  I like hearing—”  She paused to correct herself.  “Really, I like  _seeing_ how other people live, what their homes and their clothes look like, what kind of art and architecture they have.  I suppose that’s why I like going to the museum.”

“The art one or the history one?”

She laughed lightly.  “The art one.  I like to go there and sketch sometimes.  If you’re there early enough in the morning, it’s quite peaceful.”

“What kinds o’ stuff do they got there?”

“Oh, all kinds!”  As he sipped his coffee she allowed herself to enthuse about the mosaics, the sarcophagi, the ceremonial jewelry and the cooking pots.  He listened intently, never once looking away or appearing bored.

When she’d finished he said, “That sounds real nice.  All that old Greek an’ Roman stuff—Dave would like that.  Wonder if he’s ever been there.”  He lifted his mug and his eyes, looking off over her head.  Her own eyes narrowed slightly.  From anyone else the mention of his name would sound more sly, more suggestive; but Mush, though he had to have been in his twenties, had such an angelic air that she couldn’t think badly of him.  Besides, even if that was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he lowered his cup, he’d shared information that she hadn’t known before: that David liked classical literature, that he would enjoy seeing the antiquities in the museum.  The longer she thought about it, the more obvious Mush’s implication became. 

And her heart sank.  So what if she did ask David to accompany her to the museum; what then?  Whatever storybook ending Mush had in mind was unlikely to come to pass.  She couldn’t share his optimism, couldn’t allow hope to take root.  Not when there was such scant basis for it, so little to sustain it.

The smile she mustered felt pathetic.  Mush must have noticed, but his own expression didn’t sour or dim.  As he met her gaze she really looked at him for the first time.  There was determination in the set of his mouth, near defiance in his eyes, and she saw that while he had been gentle and docile during the short time she’d known him, it would be foolish to underestimate his strength.  It came to her then that his niceness was not born of innocence or ignorance.  It was a choice.  A choice to be happy and kind, even when there was little incentive or inspiration to be; a choice to make the best of worse situations than she’d ever found herself in.  He hadn’t said a word, yet she felt chastened nonetheless.

So she liked a young man a little.  It wasn’t a matter of life and death.

She straightened in her seat, gave Mush a more heartfelt smile, and said, “I don’t know.  I’ll have to ask him.”  What would it hurt?

“Attagirl.”  His smile was bright, and his approval warmed her.  That it was delivered in the newsboys’ trademark patois made it all the better.

He looked as proud as if they’d been friends forever, as if she had truly achieved something worthwhile right in front of him.  She felt a rush of wonder.  “Mush, has anyone ever told you that you’re an extraordinary young man?”

His cheeks filled with color.  “Nah,” he said, sliding his thumbs along the tabletop.  “I mean, thanks, but I’m nothin’ special.”

She shook her head.  “No, you definitely are.”

David had, of course, dropped enough change to cover almost all of their bill.  She added a dime and pretended not to see Mush’s relief.  He followed her out of the restaurant, tugging his cap on as she squinted in the sunshine.  She raised a hand to shade her eyes.

“Do you have time to come make an appointment for Blink’s portrait?” 

“Yeah!”  Mush grinned.  He offered her his arm, and together they crossed the square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: REMIND ME TO BRING MUSH A COWBOY DIME NOVEL O’ GRATITUDE!!!


	120. Alone (7 September 1905)

Her slipper-shod toes had tapped softly on the floor throughout dinner, and she’d hurried in washing up after, splattering her skirt with soapsuds.  That done she fussed about in the bedroom, killing time until she heard Roman’s knock; then she was in her shoes and at the door before he had the chance to let himself in, calling to her parents over her shoulder and pulling him back down the hall the way he’d just come.

His fingers, warm and callused, wrapped around hers.  She’d been restless all day, wanting this, wanting him; but now that he was here the buzzing in her limbs didn’t fade.  They reached the sidewalk, where she stood looking up and down the street, searching for something that would satisfy her, as he rearranged their hands.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Somewhere we can be alone.”

That answer was only half right, she realized when she’d said it, but at least alone would be a step in the right direction.

When she glanced up at him his eyes were dark, roaming from the gentle swell of her breasts to the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips.  He took half a step back towards the building, suggesting, “There’s the room under the stairs…”  

The invitation, his low voice, the heat in his gaze were all tempting.  She swallowed against the wave of desire that coursed through her.  He freed his hand from hers to skim his fingertips up the underside of her arm, and though his touch was light it was electric.  They might go too far, there in the dim light of the alcove; tonight she might be too desperate for his touch, the feel of his skin against hers, to listen to common sense.  Better to stay somewhere public, somewhere she could not forget herself, somewhere she would not push too far.  “Later,” she said, with a brisk shake of her head.  She took his hand again and nodded northward.  “This way.”

It wasn’t just his caresses that she craved—though she did long for those.  Maybe that marked her as low-minded and low-moraled; but it was hard to imagine liking someone as much as she did Roman and not wanting to be kissed and petted and held by him.  She knew, though, that those touches would leave her cold if not for the emotions they embodied.  She wanted his presence, his attention and affection, and the assurance that she was enough for him.  

Her Roman, who worked so hard to look after Tumbler and now her, who believed in them more than in himself, who deserved more than she could ever hope to give him.  Roman was so intelligent and brave and handsome; he could do anything he set his mind to, go anywhere he wanted.  And here she was: a village girl, simple and unsophisticated, no matter where she might live now.  It sometimes boggled her mind that he loved her, of all people.  She wasn’t sure how to tell him that she needed a reminder from time to time that his feelings for her hadn’t changed.  The best she could do was let him know that hers hadn’t, that she was still devoted to him.

His grip on her hand was steady as ever as she led them toward Tompkins Square Park.  Central Park was much too far away to visit at this time in the evening, a point that only rankled her all the more; and for better or for worse, Tompkins Square had fewer places to hide.  They reached the park after a quiet walk, and the restless feeling returned as she surveyed it: too few trees, too much traffic nearby.  Instinct told her to sit on the grass, but etiquette warned that a bench would be more proper for a young lady and her sweetheart.  If only they were in Revúca, where going barefoot in the summer was no mortal sin and where haylofts and copses to shelter young lovers abounded.  Unlike Revúca, though, New York was a big enough place that no one she knew was likely to see her and carry tales about her behavior back to her parents.  So she strode past the benches to the shade of a tree and dropped onto the hard ground and patchy grass at its roots.  It was a far cry from true nature, from the forested hills she hadn’t seen in years; even their visit to Brace Farm seemed like it had been ages ago.  But amid the constant city smells of hot motor oil and meat she could make out earth, bark, and leaves above, and breathed it in deeply.

Roman settled himself more cautiously, stretching his long legs out in front of him.  He was close but hadn’t moved to touch her yet, hadn’t taken her hand again; she could tell he was watching her, though, even as her head was tipped up, searching the sky above the rooftops.  He let her take his hand, let her lean into his space to kiss him harder than usual.  Only when she’d pulled back, short of breath with tingling lips, did he raise his hand to cup her jaw. 

He stroked her cheek and their eyes met.  His were velvet-soft and fathomless.  He would start worrying soon if she kept this up, and the last thing she wanted to do was to worry him.  The little crease between his eyebrows had already made its appearance, though there was a hopeful slant to his mouth.  What could she say that he didn’t already know?  She wanted him—wanted to be with him, to belong to him, once and for all.  She wanted a home with him where they could be alone, could hold each other without facing censure.  She wanted to be his wife.  She was tired of waiting, of being dutiful and demure.  More than just tired: she was exhausted, all of a sudden, spent from longing for someone who was right in front of her.  Eyes drooping half-closed, she let her face rest in his hand. 

His thumb paused in its journey.  His eyes were full as he murmured, “I know,  _miláčku_.”  Only three words, but they bled the fight from her.  That was what love was, wasn’t it?  Being known; being understood without words.

She nestled her head in the crook of his neck as he slid an arm around her.  Later they might talk about her frustrations, her fears, her petty jealousies; some of his would be the same, while she knew he had other concerns, about work and his siblings and providing for her.  Those troubles were for later, though.  The present was for taking refuge in his arms, for feeling the restless urge to move calm a little more with every beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: Now, I ain’t sayin’ a small kid named Frank Sullivan who used to live at Tompkins Square Lodgin’ House was once hollered at for tryin’ to throw eggs out the window at couples snugglin’ in the park across the street…but if it DID happen, I’m glad it was before Hana and Skitts got there.


	121. Ice Cream (10 September 1905)

Under slightly different circumstances, watching David’s reactions to their waitress flirting with him would have been hilarious.  Present circumstances being what they were—that is, with Judith seated across from him in the ice cream parlor—she found it less comical.  The situation meant that the buxom young lady had looked at him, and then at her, and then at the two of them together, and determined that his affections remained available.  Having reached this conclusion, she proceeded to offer herself as a potential recipient of those affections.  Had David and Judith looked at all related, it would have been understandable; but though they both had darkish hair and lightish eyes, David’s complexion was markedly paler—when he wasn’t blushing under the attentions of a pert purveyor of frozen confections.  As it was, Judith knew that the girl’s swift judgment had determined that someone so homely could not possibly pose any real competition to another woman.  It was insulting, but she’d endured worse.

Judith observed their interaction with a mixture of amusement and envy.  David studied the menu; the waitress, who’d offered her name as Louise, studied him.  He mused over the options, running a hand through his hair; she bit her lip and sighed.  He asked for a dish of chocolate ice cream; she praised his choice, then “accidentally” brought him a sundae instead.  He protested; she insisted.

Louise was dressed in colors suited to her environment: a French vanilla waist and pistachio skirt, both topped by a whipped-cream-white apron.  A cherry-red bow sat atop her dark blonde pompadour.  The apron’s top was stretched over a bosom that was difficult to ignore, particularly when she leaned over to deposit David’s sundae in front of him.  She simpered at the half-hearted thanks he delivered more to his dessert than to her; his head shot up, cheeks scarlet, when she touched his arm.

“Let me know if there’s anythin’ else ya want,” she instructed as he stared, wide-eyed, “an’ I’ll make sure ya get it.”  With that assurance she retreated, throwing a coquettish look over her shoulder as she went.  Judith sipped at her soda, though it did little to counteract the burn in her throat.

“I believe you have an admirer, Mr. Jacobs.”  She raised her eyes from where the spoon swirled through her soda, glancing up at him through her eyelashes.

David blinked, mouth opening as if to say something; then it snapped shut and he scowled across the small table.  “Don’t,” he warned.  He thrust his spoon into the sundae and excavated a heaping bite.  After scowling at it, too, he shoved it in his mouth.

Judith fluttered her eyelashes, or tried to.  “But she’ll give you anything you want.”  She took another delicate sip.  “What do you suppose she meant by that?”

He squirmed in his seat, cheeks still stained red.  “Cut it out, Dita,” he said, the force of the command undercut by a pleading edge.

Teasing him was more comfortable than watching someone else flirt with him.  She hid her smile and sniffed.  “I see.  I’m only Dita when you want something.”

“What?”  He frowned.  “No.  That’s not true.”

“Take a break to have some coffee, Dita,” she said.  “Buy me ice cream, Dita.”  He was fighting a smile now, though it soured when she went on, “Let the waitress flirt with me, Dita.”

His spoon clinked against the bottom of the bowl.  “You think I want that?  I didn’t ask for this.”  He gestured to his sundae, then nodded in the general direction Louise had gone.

“Oh, poor Davey can’t help being irresistible.”  It was not, she realized immediately, the best choice of words.  “I notice you didn’t turn it down.”  She nodded at the sundae.

“I’m not—”  The denial cut off abruptly, and a change stole slowly over his features: the shake of his head stilled, and his eyes went distant, considering, before returning to her.  His head cocked to one side just an inch or so and his eyebrows lowered in curiosity and confusion.  “ _Am_  I irresistible, Miss Cook?”

Much to her satisfaction she was able to meet his gaze coolly.  All would be well as long as he didn’t notice the faint trembling in the hands that held her glass.  She raised an eyebrow.  “Let’s ask Louise, shall we?”

“Let’s not,” he grumbled.  He dropped his attention back to his sundae, but she caught him peeking up at her again.

“Irresistible,” she snorted, as if it had been his idea to begin with.  “Honestly, David.  I should tell your sister that.”

“Please don’t.  Then Jack would hear about it, an’ I’d get teased by both of them.”

Despite asking for only a small dish of ice cream he succeeded in finishing the entire sundae.  Almost the moment his spoon clattered into the bowl Louise reappeared.  “Would ya like anythin’ else?” she offered him.

David smiled wanly.  “Just the bill, please.”  With a pout she produced a slip of paper.

It was supposed to be Judith’s turn to pay.  When she reached for her purse his arm shot out, staying her, and his fingers lingered on her forearm.  “My treat, Dita,” he said, a little louder than necessary, holding her gaze.  His lips were smiling but his eyes pleading, so she took pity on him and nodded.  Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she could fumble her purse open now, not with her hand tingling so much under his touch.

Louise seemed to notice her for the first time then.  Her eyes flicked over all of Judith that she could see before she turned back to David.  The obvious dismissal was nothing new.  Judith managed not to roll her eyes.

“Keep the change,” he said, dropping two dimes into her hand.  She pocketed the money and gave him a sly smile.

“I hope to see ya here again soon,” she said.  She didn’t move as he released Judith’s arm and stood, just watched him like a lioness.  He had to edge past her to reach the door; she turned with him as he passed, and seized the opportunity to plant a kiss on his cheek, back near his ear.  His face flamed again and he hurried out, giving up any pretense of politeness.  Judith followed with somewhat more dignity.

Had she had shorter legs, it would have been a challenge to keep up with him as he hastened away from the ice cream parlor.  When they were a safe distance away he slowed and turned to her with wide eyes.  “Why’d she do that?” he demanded.

“This is just a guess, but I’m fairly certain she thought you were attractive.”  That was one point on which she and Louise could agree.

“But she was at work!”  Judith barely kept from laughing that this was his foremost concern.  He flung an arm toward her, pointing with such ferocity that she reeled back a step.  “And you were there!  Why would she do that in front of you?”

_Oh, David_.  Something in the vicinity of her heart swelled with affection.  “I think she was much more interested in your feelings than mine,” she noted.  A glance showed that he was at a loss, his face flushed again.  “You seem surprised.  Are you always this helpless when women flirt with you?”

“I…no!  They don’t!  Why would you assume this is a regular occurrence?”

If he was really asking why someone might find him attractive enough to flirt with, he’d have to ask elsewhere.  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m not Blink, or Jack.  There are always girls makin’ eyes at them.  I guess it helped that they flirt right back—or used to, in Jack’s case.  But I don’t look like them, and I don’t act like them, so no girls paid that much attention to me.”  He sounded matter-of-fact, no self-pity in his tone.

“First off, even if you didn’t notice, I can guarantee that there have been girls paying attention to you all along.  Second, of course you don’t look or act like them.”  She was curious about Blink, though, after hearing from Mush and now David about him.  “It would make my job very boring if everyone looked alike.  And, you know,  _de gustibus non est disputandum_.”  Though she was sure she’d put a Portuguese accent on the words, he understood them all the same, looking a little awed.

“Some women like blue eyes and Byronic curls.  According to the ancient Romans, we should not be judged for that.”   _We_.  She could kick herself for using that particular pronoun.  With any luck he wouldn’t notice.  She wasn’t counting on it, though.

He rubbed his cap against his head.  “I’m not sure the thing about the hair is a compliment.”

“Better that your hair be Byronic than your temper.”

“So I shouldn’t start writin’ poetry and seducing my friends’ wives?”  He smiled shyly.

“I’d like to see you try.”  She did her best not to imagine how he might seduce someone.  He would be earnest and sly in turns, teasing one moment with that sardonic tilt to his lips, complimenting the next with that frank gaze.  Turned to wooing, his attention would be devastating.  Judith clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms.

“Besides,” she went on, “if you can’t stand being flirted with, how would you manage to seduce someone?”

“I could do it.”  She assured herself that the look he gave her was simply one of determination in a general sense and had nothing to do with her personally.  She was already treading such dangerous ground tonight; she really ought to rein herself in, protect her heart more strenuously.

“I’d start out with the poetry, if I were you.  You’re already a writer; it should be easy.”

“Poetry’s different from journalism,” he chuckled.  “I write about plain facts.  The truth.  Poetry’s more about soundin’ pretty than sayin’ anything real.”

“This from the man who quoted Whitman at me not so long ago.“ He had the good grace to look abashed at the raised eyebrow that accompanied her point. "And didn’t one of Byron’s friends say that truth is beauty and vice versa?  Just because something is beautiful doesn’t mean it’s shallow, or false.”  Her thoughts flitted to Louise for a second, and she felt guilty.

“Spoken like an artist.  When you pose people so they’ll look their best, is that in service of truth or beauty?”  There was that maddening smugness in his eyes, in his tone.  Her pulse quickened a few beats.

“Vanity,” she shot back.  

“I think even if I tried writin’ poetry it’d end up soundin’ like a news item.”

“Mr. Denton’s got you too well trained?”

He nodded.  “That, an’ I’m just not the romantic type.  Mush, he sees the beauty in everything, an’ he’s more than happy to tell ya about it.  It’s one of his best qualities.”  A fond smile stole onto his face, though it faded quickly.  “I’m not like that.  That…optimistic, I guess, or joyful.”

She couldn’t disagree.  Still, she fought the urge to put a hand on his arm to comfort him.  “Maybe you’re right,” she said, her tone light.  “Maybe you’d better stick to what you’re good at.”

“Uh huh, an’ what’s that?” 

“Obviously not seducing people.”  The words were out before she could stop them.  She cringed, but at the same time felt a dangerous thrill.

“Oh, yeah?”  His words were heavy in the dying daylight.  She glanced over at him and paused, her breath catching in her throat when she noticed the intent expression now directed at her.  When had he moved so close?  Why couldn’t she break eye contact?  

Did she actually think he was going to try anything?  With  _her_? 

No.  Of course not.  And she wouldn’t be made a fool of so that he could prove a point.  That dose of cold reality gave her the strength to jerk her head away and step back, putting distance between them that only grew as she resumed walking toward home.  After hesitating briefly he caught up with her. 

“Listen, Dita, I—” 

She couldn’t, couldn’t stand hearing him apologize or joke.  “What you’re good at is pointing out injustices and righting wrongs,” she said brightly, “and those are admirable traits.”

He was staring at her, but she didn’t look over.  “Sure,” he murmured at last.  

She spent the rest of the walk lost in thought—mainly about how she could be so ridiculous, and whether or not she’d managed to put him off.  Outside her door she peeked at him and found his expression similarly pensive.  While fetching the key out of her bag she also found a quarter, which she offered him, saying, “I was supposed to pay tonight.”

He shook his head.  “Nah.  I meant it when I said it was my treat.”

“Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

“I better not.”  He didn’t expand upon that, didn’t offer some deadline or early meeting as an excuse, and she felt bereft.  Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut and her walls up?  Especially since she knew that he could hurt so much more than Heitor ever had.

Despite his refusal he didn’t move for a moment, staring over her shoulder; then his gaze shifted to her face.  “I’d say I had a good time, but I always have a good time with you.”

A foolish giddiness ballooned in her chest.  “I could tell.  You certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself with Louise there.  I’ve never seen you look so panicked.”  She chuckled at the memory.

His eyes rolled.  “I would’ve left if you hadn’t been there.”

“You would have abandoned your sundae?”  Judith put a hand to her chest, gasping in mock alarm.  “If you wanted to go, you shouldn’t have let me keep you.”

Again he was silent, though this time it was to give her a long, appraising look, one that rooted her in place, that made her feel minutely examined.  “I don’t know about that,” he said.  “Good night, Dita.”

She murmured the same and watched him go.  When he reached the landing, just before the stairs turned, something loosened inside her and she called, “Davey?”

He turned back, face raised to her.  “Yeah?”

“You know that I always have a good time with you, too.  Right?”

He smiled, and it was just as devastating as she’d imagined.  “I do now.”  Then he lifted a hand from the banister to wave before he continued down the stairs, out of sight but far from out of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> de gustibus non est disputandum = about taste there is no discussion; often given in English as “there’s no accounting for taste.”
> 
> JACK: OUR DARLIN’ DAVEY’S GOT TWO GIRLS MADLY IN LOVE WITH HIM!!!!!!
> 
> (Sarah says that ain’t EXACTLY the case, but she can’t deny I’m only makin’ slight improvements to GENUINE TRUTH!!!!!)


	122. A Gift for Pauline (23 September 1905)

“…appointment with Miss Cook for a consultation.” 

She emerged from the work room to hear her client greet Mr. Till.  Best not to let him wait too long at the desk; Mr. Till was liable to eat him up.

“Good evening, Calvin,” she said, smiling.

“Evenin’, Judith.”  As she ushered him to the sitting area he said, “Thanks for seein’ me so late.”

“It’s no problem.  Would you like something to drink, or perhaps a snack?”  She gestured to the cookie tin and jug of water already on the table.  Calvin seemed the type who wouldn’t ask for something, even if he were dying of hunger or thirst, if he thought it would be too much trouble for his host; so she’d set out the things in advance, in case he hadn’t had a chance to refresh himself between work and their meeting time.

Sure enough, he nodded.  “Some water’d be great.  And,” he added, with a shy smile, “I wouldn’t say no to a cookie, if you had one, too.”

“I believe I can manage that.”  She poured two glasses of water and offered the open tin for him to choose his treat.  Then she took her time to pick out her cookie, deliberating to give him time to eat his and gulp some of the water.  Eventually she plucked up a rectangle topped with chocolate and took a bite.  She gave it a second nibble before setting it aside.  “How can I help you?”

Calvin explained that Pauline’s birthday was coming up and that he was there to arrange a session for her.  “Not an original idea, but it seems to be the popular present these days.”

She grinned.  “I’m not about to complain.  I assume you have some ideas about the portrait, given that you wanted to discuss it beforehand.”  Otherwise he simply would have made an appointment for the sitting itself.

He nodded.  “I thought it would help if we figured things out together.  I want at least two poses, maybe three.  The first one’ll be a formal full-length portrait.  Most likely she’ll be wearin’ a light-colored dress, maybe a rose or pale blue, so it seems like a dark background would be better for that.  Not too dark, but somethin’ she won’t get lost against, ya know?”  Judith nodded.  “If it’s alright with you, I’ll bring a bouquet here before I bring her, and she might like to have those in the portrait with her.  For the other, I want to let her decide.  I’m goin’ to see if Medda will let me borrow a few costumes, an’ let Paulie pick what she wants to be.  Let her be a little fanciful.  I think she’d like that.”  His face pinked.

If Medda charged money to rent out costumes, she could make a bit of extra revenue.  Maybe the studio should get a few pieces and props to have on hand.  She’d bring the idea up to Papa and Mr. Till, just as a possibility.

“I think she would, too.  And the possibility for the third?”

“A head-an’-shoulders close-up.  She’s so pretty, it’d be a shame not to capture that.”  She couldn’t argue with that, in terms of either sentiment or aesthetics.  The adoring expression he wore was so sweet that she had to smile, which surprised her.  Shouldn’t she be envious of their relationship, especially when she was in the throes of unrequited infatuation?  That would make sense.  And yet here she was, as pleased as if she were on the receiving end of all of this thoughtful planning and attention.  

Judith jotted a few notes, and then the two of them returned to the front desk.  Mr. Till was still ensconced behind it; she nudged him aside to flip pages in the appointment book.  “When would you like the photos done?”

“Her birthday’s the twenty-third.”  A Saturday.  “How long in advance would we need to come in for the photos to be ready by then?”

She tapped a Sunday two weeks before.  “The tenth would be best, though I could manage it up until the nineteenth.”  It was more than enough turnaround time, but better to be safe than sorry, especially with a birthday present on the line.

“Nah.  The tenth’ll be fine, I think, long as it’s in the afternoon.”

“Three?”  She poised the pencil over the date. 

“Sounds great.”  He grinned.  “Thanks, Judith.  It’ll be okay if I drop the flowers an’ some o’ the other stuff off that morning?”

She nodded.  “I’ll be here all day.  See you then.”

“See ya.  Goodbye, sir,” he added to Mr. Till, who nodded with dignity.  Judith admired his restraint—right up until the young man was safely out the door; at that point Mr. Till sighed, seeming with that exhalation to melt.  He rested his chin in one hand.

“I don’t know where you made all these new friends, Cooky,” he said, “but I approve.”

Though he wasn’t paying any attention to her she rolled her eyes.  “I seem to recall you calling some of them con artists.” 

“The urchins don’t count.”  He dismissed Gussie and Tumbler with a wave of his non-load-bearing hand; the momentum of the wave pulled him upright again.  From the corner of her eye Judith saw him study her as she noted in the appointment book that Calvin would be delivering supplies the morning of the tenth.  He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again; such hesitation was uncharacteristic.  He overcame it to ask,  “What about David?  He didn’t stop by today?”

He hadn’t, as it happened, and she wasn’t keen on pinpointing how that made her feel.  “Not that I know of,” she said, with a lightness she hoped Mr. Till didn’t see through.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he replied, and those words, that trite sentiment, that unexpected gentleness, struck her gut like a fist.  She didn’t need to be encouraged; she needed to be realistic, to keep her wits, to focus on her work.  Mr. Till’s teasing would have been more helpful now than this sincerity.  Blast these men for making her hope.

* * * * *

As promised, Calvin rushed in not long after she’d unlocked the door.  A bouquet in a vase was in his hands, and a large laundry sack was slung over one shoulder.  She took the flowers from him and directed him up the stairs, where she’d set up a makeshift clothing rack from a ladder, the top of the wardrobe, and a broom handle.  They’d need a bigger wardrobe if her costume idea took off.  As he hung the clothes he explained that he was expected at church with Pauline’s family before too long; the care he took with the borrowed garments extended to the sack they’d traveled in, which he laid out flat under the trailing skirts.  Then he hurried out again, calling his thanks as he went. 

At the appointed time the couple arrived, Calvin holding the door as Pauline swept in.  She made straight for Judith and caught her by the forearms before kissing her cheek.  “Oh, Judith, thank you,” she said, as Judith recovered from the unexpected affection.  

“Thank Calvin.  It was his idea.”  While Pauline shared a smile with her beau, stars in her eyes, Judith looked her client up and down: as Calvin had predicted, she was wearing a lightweight dress, though it was violet in color.  “You look lovely.  Shall we?” 

Calvin trailed them up the stairs, where in the studio Pauline gingerly unpinned her hat before looking in the mirror.  Without the slightest bit of self-consciousness she pinched her cheeks to bring out their color, then smoothed her skirt.  She turned to Judith with hands clasped in front of her like a schoolgirl, though her demure posture was belied by the bright eagerness of her eyes. 

Unsure how much Calvin had explained, Judith guided Pauline toward the dark wood pedestal set in front of the backdrop.  “This will be a full-length portrait,” she said, positioning the young woman atop one of a faint mark on the floor.  “I think it needs a little something, though.  Calvin?”

Pauline gasped, hands flying to her mouth, as he brought forward the bouquet.  They were cream-colored roses—a symbol of purity, yes, but more importantly, a testament to how well he knew her; red roses would have looked garish against her gown.  “They’re beautiful, darling,” she breathed.

Calvin smiled, less proud of himself than doting over her.  “You want to hold them?” he asked.  “Or…here.”  Cradling the vase to him he shimmied a single flower free of the bunch and handed it to her.  The rest he set on the pedestal behind her, whispering in her ear once he’d done so.  All of the cheek-pinching in the world couldn’t produce a complexion that glowed as much as Pauline’s did at that moment.

She inhaled the bloom’s scent as he retreated, then twisted at the waist to admire the bouquet behind her.  The effect was charming, if perhaps a little uncomfortable-looking; a glance at Calvin showed him enchanted by the sight.  With that, Judith made a decision.

She pulled the pedestal forward and then turned Pauline to face it, with one hand resting gracefully on the wooden plinth.  The angle of her head would be crucial: tilted too far down her chin and neck would appear unrealistically, unappealingly, unforgivably flabby.  Judith took care to play up her slim frame and fair features.  After a moment she stepped back to peruse the scene through the lens; then she emerged to make a few more adjustments until she was satisfied.

“Ready?” she called from behind the camera.  In response Pauline closed her eyes.  “One,” she said, and Pauline took a deep breath; “two,” and her eyes popped open; and at “three” she smiled as if seeing the flowers for the first time.

Calvin had only mentioned the possibility of a close-up shot, and they hadn’t discussed it today.  But not long after he’d left their consultation she’d made up her mind; this shot would be her gift to them.  So now she produced a plain chair and had Pauline sit, this time with the flowers behind her.  Stepping back, Judith saw that the bouquet drew the eye from Pauline’s face, so she moved it out of the frame.  This time she looked directly at the camera, lips turned up sweetly.  She could swear she heard Calvin sigh at the sight.

When the exposure had been made he bounded forward.  “Now for the surprise,” he said, helping Pauline out of her chair.

“Another?”

“Yeah.  Look.”  He led her to where the costumes hung.  “Pick one of these an’ put it on, an’ Miss Cook’ll take your picture in that, too.”

She started to examine the costumes but paused, hand on a diaphanous swathe of fabric.  “Turnabout is fair play,” she said, “so this will be a surprise for you, too.”

His eyebrows arched.  “How’s that?”

“You can see what I pick when the pictures are done,” she said with an impish smile.  “Go wait downstairs.”

“Really?  C’mon, Paulie…”

She flung out an arm with the conviction of a queen.  “Go!”  And out he slunk, muttering following him.

The satisfied smile lingered on her lips as she turned back to the rack.  “Sometimes I think I’m the luckiest girl alive,“ she said, flipping through the costumes.  “I’m sure it sounds silly, but Calvin knows me so well—what I like and what I’ll do.”

“He got the color of your dress wrong, though.  He predicted pink, or blue.”

Instead of being offended at the contradiction she laughed.  “I know!  He was so certain I’d wear something newer.  But I wore this dress the first time we met, so…”  The color rose in her cheeks, and Judith was sure that the appearance of that particular outfit had inspired a tender embrace or two before they reached the studio. 

Pauline held out a dress that seemed vaguely German, with a blue vest laced with white ties over the bodice.  “My mother would like this,” she said, “but I’d have to do a crown braid, and that would take too long.”  Another dress, this one velveteen with gold piping, looked fit for a down-on-her-luck empress; it was deemed too old for her, while a third’s black was too severe.  She swept them aside, and in doing so noticed something on the floor. 

“What’s this?” she wondered, already stooping to investigate.  She tugged at the laundry sack; rather than sliding easily and quietly across the floor as empty canvas ought to, it offered resistance, a rigid shape, and a muffled thump.  Judith looked on curiously as Pauline reached into the bag and withdrew a prop sword.  She sighed, somehow unsurprised.

When she rose, leaving the sword on the floor, Pauline looked as if she’d tasted something sour.  “Some of Calvin’s friends like to call me Shiv,” she explained.  She nudged the sword with her toe, and her frown deepened.  “I don’t know why he’d bring it up, though.”

“Why do they call you that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Her mouth screwed up.  “A shiv is a make-do weapon.  A young man, one of Calvin’s friends, was flirting with me and stole a kiss.  So I stabbed him in the…backside with a hatpin.”

Judith tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle at that.  Pauline’s eyes widened and her mouth turned down in hurt for a moment; then she, too, smiled wryly.  Judith leaned down to pick up the sword.  She couldn’t say it felt natural in her hand, but there was something about holding a weapon, even a prop one, that made you feel a little stronger, a little bolder.

“Do you know the story of the heroine Judith?”

She shook her head and settled at the edge of one of the chairs, leaning forward a little as she listened.  Judith should have known the other girl would be interested in a good story.

“This Judith—Yehudit, in Hebrew—was also a Jewish woman, though she was very beautiful.  Her home was invaded by foreigners, and after a month of being besieged the Jews were ready to surrender.  The elders decided to give God five days to save them before they gave their city and themselves up to the enemy.”  Both women shook their heads.

“Judith, who was a widow with a reputation for wisdom, knew that God would deliver her people if they waited faithfully.  She tried to convince the elders of this, but they couldn’t go back on their vow to surrender after five days.  Otherwise they would look untrustworthy in the eyes of the Jews.  Judith was more concerned with keeping the people safe than they were with keeping their power and prestige, so she told them she would handle it and deliver them all.”  

Pauline was listening, rapt and wide-eyed.  Judith went on, “After she begged God to give her strength in bringing down their enemies, she dressed in her finest clothes, called a servant girl, and went out to the enemy camp.  They took baskets of food and wine, and Judith told the patrolling soldiers who met them that she would reveal the city’s secrets to their commander in return for his protection.  Since few men argue with a beautiful woman carrying food—”  Pauline snorted, shaking her head in disdain.  “—they let her stay.  They even let the women go out of the camp at night, because Judith told them that they were praying for God to reveal when the Jews would be vulnerable to attack.

“After the women had spent a few days in the camp Holofernes, the commander, called for Judith to join him for an intimate little banquet in his tent.”  The two shared a dark look.  Men were so simple, so predictable.  “Holofernes was so stunned by her beauty that he drank far too much.  When everyone else had left the tent after the banquet Judith prayed again; then she used his own sword to cut off his head.”

Pauline drew in a soft breath—not a gasp of surprise, as if Holofernes’ death was anything but inevitable or well-deserved, but a satisfied inhalation at a job well done.

“Judith’s servant put the head in the bag she’d carried the food in and they left the camp, as usual.  But this time they returned to the city to show the elders what Judith had done.  The next morning the Jews attacked and defeated the enemy army, though their deliverance was the work of a woman.”

They both stayed silent for a moment: it was the only proper response to such a story.  Judith imagined the woman who shared her name, the blood that must have stained her hands and clothes, the way she and her maid had to walk out of the camp when surely they must have wanted to hurry, to dance and shout on their way.  Though it was a fake, made for show, the sword felt heavy in her hand.

“I may not know Calvin well but it’s obvious he thinks the world of you.  So this—”  She extended the sword hilt first, letting Pauline close her fingers deliberately around the leather-wrapped handle.  “—would hardly be meant to mock you.  If anything, it’s a reminder, an affirmation of your strength.  Now, if a man gave me a shield, that would be like him saying, ‘Stay back, you need protecting.’  But a sword…  To me that means he trusts your capability.”

“That he hasn’t underestimated you.”

Judith blew out a breath, relieved that Pauline understood what she was getting at, and nodded.  “I’m far from an expert, but it seems to me that if a man trusts you and believes in you that much, you shouldn’t let him get away.”

“No,” Pauline murmured slowly, “I suppose you shouldn’t.”  Her gaze traveled the length of the blade, and her hand flexed around the grip.  Then she looked up at Judith.  “It must be an honor to share your name with a woman like that.  I don’t know of any heroines named Pauline.”

Instead of her ancient forebear Judith thought of the way David had laughed when she first introduced herself, the many ways he said her name.  A lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.  She pushed away thoughts of him to focus on her job and her client.  “Maybe,” she said, voice steadying as she went on, “one day someone will say that it’s an honor to have the same name as Pauline Hermann.”

Pauline huffed a little laugh, her face twisted in exaggerated doubt.  “Maybe,” she allowed, though her tone said otherwise.  Then she stood, set the sword aside, and clapped her hands.  “Now.  Back to work.”

She deliberated for a moment between the final two dresses, eventually dismissing the gauzy thing reminiscent of an ancient Greek robe.  The dress that remained was the color of summer in a forest, complete with shafts of sunlight shimmering through the gaps between leaves.  The sleeves belled out from the elbow; Pauline blushed when she realized that its square neckline would require her to remove her chemise, though it did not dip so low as to scandalize anyone.  A belt of golden links draped loosely around the dress’ middle.  “Queen Guinevere,” she said, a smile playing at her lips as she studied it.  Judith’s first thought had been Lady Macbeth, but the queen suited Pauline better.

As Pauline began to undress, Judith went about setting the scene.  The heavy chair with scrollwork arms; the backdrop with the blue sky above distant hills; artificial greenery sprawling out from the base of the little throne.  They didn’t own a crown, she knew, and Calvin hadn’t brought any headwear in his bag; but over in their little costume shop Pauline’s arms were raised to pull pins from her hair.  When it was all loose she combed her fingers through it, arranging it over her shoulders.

“Could you bring me the roses?”

Judith complied, carrying the vase to her.  “You don’t know how to make a flower crown, do you?” Pauline asked in the mirror.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Me either.”  She plucked out a flower nonetheless and pinned it over one ear.  In a few minutes she had a tiara of roses blooming over her golden tresses.

The scene Judith had put together made her smile, and she took a seat gingerly, careful not to disturb the flowers.  Judith stood back and gave her time to find her own pose.  It didn’t take long before she had, both feet flat on the floor and both hands on the arms of the chair, back straight and expression poised.  It would be a photograph worthy of exhibition, of being called art.  It wanted only one thing.

“Are you right-handed?” she asked.  When Pauline nodded, she leaned the sword there: its point by her right foot, much of the blade hidden by the skirt, the hilt resting inside the arm of the chair.  Pauline didn’t touch it, didn’t so much as move her hand; it was simply there, ready if the need for it arose.  Flowers in her hair and a sword close at hand—there was no way Calvin could be surprised by this portrait.

After Pauline had changed, sighing a little as she reverted to her everyday appearance, and Judith had secured her plates, the two of them packed up the costumes.  The former carried the laundry bag down the stairs, while the latter brought the bouquet.  This led to a shuffling in the waiting area, as Pauline handed off her load to her beau.

“Thank you,” she said, kissing Judith’s cheek.  “That was wonderful.  Especially the story.”  Her eyes were serious as they met Judith’s.

“I’m glad.”  And she was, truly.  “I enjoyed it.  Don’t forget your flowers.”

“I won’t.  Except this one.”  She slipped one of the roses behind Judith’s ear.  The petals tickled and she froze, afraid to dislodge it; Pauline beamed at her and reclaimed the rest from her unresisting hands.

“We’re all going dancing for my birthday,” she said.  “I expect to see you there.”  Though Pauline wore a bright smile and her eyes twinkled, there was a clear command in her tone that brooked no argument.  

Before Judith could even attempt to demur they were on their way out the door, Pauline waving gaily as they passed the window.  She watched the couple walk down the street.  Each had a burden, but their hands were entwined between them.  Now that there was no work to distract her, a wave of melancholy washed over her. 

But there was always tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite quote from Judith: “God has sent me to perform with you such deeds as will astonish people throughout the whole earth who hear of them” (11:16) (this link is at the translation most like the one I read first). For an overview of the story that Judith Cook would be more familiar with, check out the one from the Jewish Women’s Archive.
> 
> JACK: I’M ADDIN’ BOTH JUDITHS TO THE LIST O’ ME FAVORITE HEROINES!!!!


	123. Meta: Various Questions

I decided to answer some questions from [this list](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/179095901070/93-fun-oc-asks-because-why-not) for my girls.  If there are any others you’re curious about, let me know and I’d be happy to answer them.

**15\. What was something their parents taught them?**  
It should come as no surprise that Judith’s father taught her how to use a camera.  The first step was the mechanics of the machine—where the plate goes, how to adjust the focus.  But equally as important are the artistic elements.  Those he taught more subconsciously, by letting her observe as he photographed clients and by critiquing his results.  And though he was sometimes surprised by the things she asked, or that she had to ask certain things in the first place, he always answered her questions about techniques and processes. 

But her mother was the one who encouraged her in other artistic endeavors, in painting and sketching and studying.  Before Judith got a camera of her own there was only so much time she could spend practicing with Papa’s; Mother rightly pointed out that learning other mediums would be useful.  Maybe Isabela had a dim hope of luring Judith’s affection from photography to a more feminine and therefore more socially acceptable art form.  If that were the case, she never tried to stop her daughter from joining the studio.  But it was on their trips to the museum, and even their visits to Grandmother Rodrigues’ friends’ homes, that she pointed out the way that velvet and silk reflected light differently, and how the ancient Greeks and the Egyptians portrayed the animals so very differently. 

And it was probably from her that Judith first got her hankering for color, because no matter how pretty Mother looked in photographs she never looked as vibrant and spirited as she was in real life.  From that young Judith got it into her head that only color could make her look real.  Later on Judith learned, from Papa and Mother both, how to capture a subject’s essential qualities, thus making them look lively even in monochrome; soon after that she also learned that rather than having their essence revealed most customers simply wanted to look as attractive as possible.  But she never lost the desire for true-color photographs.

**21\. What is their favorite thing about their personality?**  
Pauline is generally pretty satisfied with herself as a human being.  She knows she has flaws (like the gap between her teeth) and faults (that she’s too concerned with appearances, for instance, and that she wants a grander life than her parents have, which surely means she’s greedy and ungrateful), but in her own opinion those black marks are largely obscured by her many good qualities.  The best of these, she thinks, is her ability to make friends with almost anyone.  It’s a boon at work, of course, where establishing a rapport with the prickly or uncertain customer leads to sales.  But being able to chat amiably with others has proved a pleasant way to pass time and has led her to learn many new things.

**23\. Do they get lonely easily?**  
It’s mostly during working hours that Hana gets any time to herself; she’s rarely alone otherwise, whether she’s out with her friends, spending time with Roman, or helping her parents at home.  While she’s sweeping and scrubbing is her best chance to think and to enjoy the quiet.  If asked, she’d say she rarely feels lonely, but she would admit to missing people: mostly Jozef, Zuzana, and Thomas, but even her sweetheart if it feels like it’s been too long since he held her properly.  At those times it’s best that no one is around to see her shiver and sigh and blush at the thought of his arms around her.

**37\. How easy is it for them to say “I love you”?  Do they say it without meaning it?  
**For the Kollárs, “I love you” is rarely said, though always understood.  Hana knows Mama loves her because she’s kept warm and well fed, and she knows Tatko loves her because of the way he used to tuck her blanket up under her chin after a story at bedtime, and she knows Jozef loves her because he tried to teach her his lessons after school and never called her names the way some older brothers did to their sisters.  Likewise, they’ve never had to doubt that she loves them.  They just don’t go around saying it all the time.  Actions speak louder than words anyway, right? 

For that reason and others she wasn’t expecting Roman to say it first. She knew he liked being around her and hoped that he was fond of her in the same way that she was of him.  And then he did, his lips against hers and the scent of flowers surrounding them both, and everything was different.  Hearing him so sure of his feelings was a surprise greater than the flowers and his kiss.  Now there’s no reason not to tell him she loves him at every opportunity.  The words sometimes feel insufficient in light of how she feels for him; at the same time actions alone aren’t enough—nor are the type of actions that would best communicate her feelings appropriate for an unmarried couple to engage in. So for now the words have to be enough, and she means them with every fiber of her being.

**38\. What do others admire most about their personality?**  
Hana admires Pauline’s lightness and ease in any social situation, and Judith’s dignity.

Jack admires that Hana has the patience and fortitude to put up with Skittery.  That, as he well knows, is a monumental task.  More seriously, he appreciates that she cares for him so thoroughly and deeply; knowing that someone is looking after his pal takes a load off his mind. 

Judith doesn’t know Hana well enough to admire much about her, but according to Roman she’s the sweetest, hardest-working woman ever to walk the earth.  David’s got nothing but good to say about her, too, though his praise is markedly less fervent.  So maybe she’s a little envious of Hana.  She admires Pauline’s energy and aesthetic sense, as contemporary fashion is one arts-adjacent field she’s never quite got the hang of.

Jack admires Judith’s clear sight.  For all that she works in an artistic field, she’s straightforward, level-headed, unpretentious.  Plus she made his family—four-legged members included—look good, and Dave can use all the friends he can get.  (I, for one, am interested in what some other people admire about her.  Just throwing that out there.)

Pauline admires Hana’s steadiness and good humor and generosity, and Judith’s wit and regal bearing.

And it goes without saying that Jack admires Pauline’s boldness and verve and willingness to stab a guy who deserves it.

**39\. What does their happily ever after look like?**  
For Pauline it’s marriage to a faithful, kind, noble young man, and a few babies somewhere down the road (not too many, though, and not too soon).  It’s moving away from the rooms she grew up in.  Unless she falls head over heels for a rich man they won’t be able to afford a house at first; even if the move is simply to a place of their own in a different building it will be a good start.  Eventually, with hard work and thriftiness, they’ll be able to afford their own place, just the right size for their family and with a little yard for the dog—if her husband happens to have one.  They’ll have a big bed and curtains so fine they float on the faintest breeze, a bathroom they don’t have to share with anyone else and a table large enough for at least half a dozen guests.  Their home will be full of friends and happiness and love.  She’ll sleep at night in her husband’s arms with their children nearby, all of them safe and comfortable and utterly adored.

**53\. What is their hair color?  Eye color?  Skin tone?**  
I’m cheating a bit on this one.  When I was first coming up with Judith I wrote the following to describe her from David’s point of view; though I never got to use it verbatim in a story, it was really useful to me. 

As the young woman strode toward him Denton’s voice echoed in his head, urging him to note details and impressions.  So: Miss Cook had a complexion the color of antique gold, with a faint olive cast.  Strong nose with a bump at the ridge; full eyebrows over green eyes; dark hair frizzing out of its updo at the temples; dark dress that at first appeared merely serviceable but upon closer inspection was actually finely embroidered and expertly tailored; whiff of flashpowder and darkroom chemicals as she extended her hand.  Nothing about her was what he’d expected.  “I’m Judith Cook,” she said.

**56\. What do they smell like?  Why do they smell like this?  (Is it the things they’re around or a perfume they wear?)**  
As above, she smells like the tools of her trade: magnesium and silver nitrate and sulfur.  Since then David might have also picked up on her perfume.  It smells like oranges and flowers and he’s not sure what else.  ([This scent](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Facquadiportokali.com&t=NzAzZTU3ZWU3MjI4YWU5NTVhMmQ2NTRjZWQxZTMzOTE1MzAwODZhOCxSVUdRekNCWA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179097879760%2Fhttpsacquadiportokalicom-orange-white-rose&m=1), a blend of orange, white rose, and cedar, fits the bill, though it didn’t exist in 1905.  [This site](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftocrossthepond.com%2Fcategory%2F1900s-fragrances%2F&t=MzU3YTcyYjgyZmJlYzliZGY1ZWVlYjFkMjRkNjU3NjEyYjYwNzk3ZixxTmtKTlZKbA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179196116210%2Fi-decided-to-answer-some-questions-from-this-list&m=1) describes some early 20th century perfumes.) 

**57\. How do they feel about sex?  Are they a virgin?**  
It is by no means something she’s proud of, but Pauline is in fact interested in the subject.  Unfortunately, the person she’s most comfortable [asking about such delicate matters](http://pandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com/post/170888697110/pauline-hermann-was-at-a-loss-valentines-day) is only slightly more experienced than she is in them.  At least Hana has confirmed that Pauline isn’t alone in wanting to do a little more with her sweetheart than just holding hands and kissing goodnight.  It’s reassuring to know that thinking about those things doesn’t make her perverse.

But thinking about it is confusing.  Her education on the subject has been far from comprehensive, consisting of oblique lectures about what good girls don’t do, giggles from coworkers, and overheard complaints from customers.  It’s far more daunting this way than if everything had ever been explained; what she’s heard has her apprehensive enough not to be too forward with Calvin.  Mostly she’s content to have his arms wrapped around her, holding her close as he whispers sweet things in her ear.  But sometimes that intimacy is enough to cause her fear to waver, and that makes her think that when the time comes everything will finally make sense and she’ll be alright.

For his part, I think Calvin tries to rein in his more physical reactions to her.  The desire in their relationship is not one-sided, but she’s still young, and they don’t need to move any faster than they are right now.  He wants to do things the right way, for everyone’s sake, and he isn’t about to take risks with her future.

**63\. What is always guaranteed to make them smile?**  
Hana is a sucker for babies and the smell of fresh hay.  When she gets a whiff of the latter she’ll stop in her tracks, her eyes closing of their own avail; she’ll take a deep breath of it and remember the hayricks in fields just outside Revúca, the flash of blades from mowers’ scythes and piled-high carts pulled by sturdy horses.  Sometimes the memory adds a hint of wistfulness to the slow smile that spreads across her face.

**77\. What is their most prized possession?**  
If you think that Pauline, the quintessential romantic, doesn’t have a box containing every note and card that her beau ever gave her, you’re wrong. 

**82\. What is their handwriting like?**  
Because of her dyslexia, Judith’s handwriting isn’t the best.  If she could she’d communicate via pictographs instead.  Anything she wants to write requires a lot of thought and effort, and it still never reads back as fluid as it sounded in her head.  Her handwriting is more angular than she’d like; it can also be disjointed in places where she’s had to stop to work out a spelling before she goes on.  Her pages never look very tidy as the examples in her penmanship exercises at school.

**84\. Which deadly sin do they represent best?**  
Pauline: avarice.  She wants more than she has, wants to move up in the world, literally and metaphorically.  
Hana: envy.  She wants what others already have, particularly marriage and a home with her own family.   
Judith: pride.  She doesn’t want to be pitied or looked down on, especially not because of silly things like her relationships or lack thereof and her choice of career—her choice to  _have_  a career.


	124. A New Dress (30 September 1905)

A few days later, when daydreams of courtly love were still floating through Pauline’s head, Judith presented herself at the counter.  It was early afternoon of a slow day; Pauline welcomed the distraction, all the more since it was a friend.

“I suppose,” Judith sighed, fingers clutching the edge of the counter, “I need a new dress.  Suitable for dancing.”  Her smile wavered, pinched in at each corner; Pauline wondered what she was so afraid of, and whether it would be kinder to tell her she needn’t come after all.  But rescinding the invitation would be rude, far ruder than not having invited her in the first place.  The right thing to do would be to tell her that she shouldn’t feel obligated, either to go dancing or to buy a new dress, and Pauline would say as much…after she showed Judith the new dress that had come in.

She slipped from behind the counter and hurried toward it, confident that Judith would follow.  With her long legs it didn’t take Judith more than a step or two to catch up to her.  “The minute I saw this I thought of you,” Pauline confided with a secretive smile.  “I’ve been hoping you would come in.”

It took some effort to temper her excitement so that Judith wouldn’t be overwhelmed.  Her customer’s initial reaction to the frock, a deep green, was skepticism; Pauline watched her take in the gently puffed sleeves, the velvet trim that hinted at cooler weather to come, the draped neckline that dipped lower than her everyday blouses.

Regarding it with narrowed eyes, she asked, “It isn’t too plain for dancing?  No, never mind.”  She shook her head.  “If you say it’s fine, it’s fine.”  She took the dress from Pauline.

“It’s more than fine.  The color is wonderful for you, and the cut suits you as well.  Yes,” she said, “I’ll be wearing a dress with lots of lace and ribbons, but that’s because I’m a capricious young thing—”

“Not at all,” Judith interrupted.  Her eyes had widened in surprise at Pauline’s description; now her brows lowered until she looked quite stern, and her tone was chiding.  “You’re thoughtful and responsible.  Whimsical, maybe, but not capricious or flighty or anything of the sort.”

Pauline smiled.  “Alright.  But I’ll be dressing to suit my style: whimsical.  If you wore the same kinds of things I did, of course you’d look wrong.  And so would I if I tried to wear the elegant things you do.  So no, this won’t be too plain.  It will be lovely.”

Despite those reassurances, it took Judith a moment’s more consideration before she held the dress up in front of her and turned to the mirror.  No matter how hesitant she was, even she couldn’t fail to notice the way her eyes reflected the fabric to turn a richer green.  Not to mention how much younger she looked in colors, rather than the dark things she gravitated toward.  If she wanted to catch someone’s eye—

That was none of Pauline’s business.  This was a clothing boutique, not a matchmaking bureau; her job was to sell dresses, not dictate what anyone did in them.  To that end, conscience pricking, she stopped Judith before she moved toward the dressing room.

“The other day,” she began carefully, “it may have sounded like you didn’t have a choice but to come.  So let me try again.”  She folded her hands in front of her and looked up at the other woman.  “You are cordially invited to come dancing with us for my birthday.  I do hope you’ll come, but you aren’t at all obligated.”  There.  Having asked properly, she chewed at her lower lip as she awaited a response.

It came as thanks and a gracious nod.  “What day is it again?”

“The twenty-third.  That’s a Saturday.”  They hadn’t been able to have their dinner party on a Saturday evening, she now remembered; would the same restriction keep Judith away from the party?  “We’re going sometime after dinner—maybe around seven?”

Judith thought it over, eyes raised to the rafters.  “I can’t be there that early,” she admitted.  “Shabbat ends at sunset—more or less; it’s supposed to be after sunset, when you can see three stars in the sky.”  That was a beautiful way of marking time, Pauline thought, by the sun and the stars, not by clocks.  “But stars can be hard to come by here, so we wait a while after the sun’s gone down.  Probably the earliest I could make it anywhere is eight.  But I could meet you there…wherever it is.”

The offer brightened Pauline’s spirits.  “So you do want to come?”

Her eyes skipped from Pauline’s face to the dress she held.  It looked almost like she was blushing as she nodded: tentatively at first, then more assured.  “Of course I want to help you celebrate your birthday.  It’s very kind of you to invite me.”

Pauline just barely kept herself from throwing her arms around Judith.  “Oh, I’m so glad!  Thank you.”  She beamed at the other woman, who looked bemused.  That, she decided, was a step in the right direction.  They’d get to enthusiasm eventually.  And the dress, once she’d tried it on, was sure to help.

* * *

She broached the subject over coffee. 

“I heard,” he chuckled.  David tipped his head toward their approaching waiter and said, “Skittery was complaining about it earlier.  You’d think somebody so in love with his girl wouldn’t mind takin’ her out dancing.”

The young man in question scowled down at him as he refilled their mugs.  “I’d do anythin’ with Hana.  You know that ain’t the problem.”

As she seemed to be included in this presumption, yet did not know the conclusion she should be drawing, she asked, “So what is the problem?”  David smirked.  

“The problem,” Roman explained slowly, as if to a child, “is I don’t like Shiv tellin’ me what to do.  See?”  He pointed a finger at her.  “She did it to you, too.  She just expects ya to do things when she tells ya to.”

“She did at first,” Judith admitted.  “But then she invited me properly, and I still agreed.”

He ignored this last point.  “We ought to not go, see how she likes that for a birthday present.”

“You’ll never get away with it,” David said.  She noticed that he had been silent on whether or not he was invited and planning to attend.  “Hana won’t let Pauline be upset, not on her birthday.  And you aren’t goin’ to do anything that’ll make Hana mad at you.”

“I’ll do somethin’ that’ll make you mad,” Roman threatened, expression dark.  He lifted the carafe, as if to dump it over David’s head. 

“Go ’head,” he taunted.  “I know you won’t.  Tibby’ll fire you, an’ you need this job.”

Roman snorted.  “You think nobody else here has ever been tempted to pour coffee all over ya, Mouth?  You’re no saint.”  But the defiance went out of him and his shoulders slumped.  “You’re right, though, I can’t lose this job.  Not ’til I find a real one, somethin’ that pays better than servin’ bad coffee to ungrateful jerks.  Either o’ ya hear about somethin’ for a guy like me, let me know, alright?”  He shuffled off. 

“What is a guy like him like?”

“A pain, but smart.  Better at understandin’ writing than you’d expect a waiter to be.”  David stared after him, drumming his fingers against the side of his mug.  An idea was taking shape in his brain, that much was obvious, so she stayed quiet for a moment.

A moment was all she could stand, though.  Her leg bounced under the table.  Subtlety hadn’t worked, but she couldn’t come out and invite him.  It wasn’t her place, as it wasn’t her party—never mind that it was being held in a public place, where nearly anyone could come in.  The truth was that she was too much of a coward to ask him to accompany her.  She made one last attempt.

“So you won’t be going?  To Pauline’s party?”  Her voice sounded too high and needy in her own ears, and she winced.

He shook his head.  “I hardly know her.  We met once, I guess, but that’s it.  It might be different if it was Hana, ’cause we’ve talked more, an’ Skitts an’ I get along well—”

She arched an eyebrow, head tipped in the direction he’d walked off.  “That’s getting along well?”

“You should see him not get along with somebody.  Besides,” he said, “some of us have work to do, Miss Cook.”

And he wouldn’t shirk to attend a party, much less one he seemed indifferent to.  Her heart sank.  “Really?  On a Saturday night?”

“Really.  Politicians in this city never slow down—or shut up.  I’ll be lucky if I get home before midnight.”  He didn’t seem at all dismayed by the idea; in fact he appeared to relish it, at least in comparison with the idea of dancing.

The coffee scalded her tongue and proceeded to burn the length of her throat.  She set her cup down, suddenly unable to drink another bitter drop.  “Well, I hope you have fun,” she said, trying to keep the irritation and disappointment from her voice.  She must have, for he simply thanked her.

* * *

Though she wasn’t entirely looking forward to the evening, she still hurried to reach the hall.  Calvin and Roman might dance with her out of pity, but no one else was likely to ask; she foresaw an empty hour or two sitting alone at a table before she could say goodnight and return home.  The sooner she got there, the sooner she could leave.  Even if they hadn’t danced, she and David still could have talked.  Now she was left with a mounting dread and the feeling that her new dress was going to waste.

She needn’t have hurried quite so much: the hall was still more empty than not, though people were trickling in steadily.  This world of going out, of parties and dancing, seemed so foreign.  Everyone around her was so young—though a second glance revealed that that wasn’t so, that there were a few couples somewhere between her age and her parents’.  With a jolt she realized that she didn’t even know which birthday this would be for Pauline.  Twenty, maybe?  Surely.  If she were any younger Judith wouldn’t be able to stand it. 

Rising from a little knot of people were the dark heads of Calvin and Roman.  And there was Hana, and golden-haired Pauline; but another man was with them, one she didn’t recognize, his hair a darker blond than Pauline’s.  As she approached she heard Roman ask, a laugh in his voice,

“You invited Blink?”

“He invited himself,” Pauline sniffed. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know ya’d rented out the whole place,” the infamous Blink shot back.  “’Sides, somebody’s got to keep Judith company while you lovebirds are dancin’.”

“You don’t have to—”  They all turned to look at her and she stopped short.  Pauline’s vexation was evident in the pleating of her forehead, though it relaxed with some effort; Hana smile, too, was a bit worried.  Roman looked more amused than anyone, while Calvin’s expression was wary.  And Blink turned her way with a brilliant and, astonishingly, sincere grin.

Calvin’s manners held up the best.  “Judith, this is Louis Ballatt, otherwise known as Kid Blink.  Kid, this is Miss Judith Cook.”

Rather than shake the hand she extended he caught it up and pressed a kiss to it.  Her eyebrows shot up.  “It’s a pleasure to meet ya, Judith.”

“And you.  But please understand that I don’t need looking after,” she said, voice as taut as her shoulders.  “I’m quite alright on my own.”

“Nobody said ya weren’t.  But I got an earful about ya from Mush, an’ it got me kind o’ curious.  I wanted to see what he was talkin’ about for myself.”  He met her gaze steadily. 

Having someone else there would be better, less pathetic, than sitting alone.  She shouldn’t feel that way; she should be strong enough not to care.  But in this room full of merry couples, her isolation would feel like a beacon.  She sat.

“And do I live up to your expectations?”

He dropped into a seat.  “Don’t know yet.  He said ya were real nice, an’ had a good imagination.  I can’t tell any o’ that yet.”

That was fair.  She’d rather not be judged by a glance.  The others, who’d lingered throughout this opening exchange to see what the outcome might be, now drifted away; from the corner of her eye she saw Calvin peek back at them over his shoulder.  

“What’d he tell ya ’bout me?” Blink demanded.  Apparently the idea that Mush might not have spoken of him was unimaginable.

“Just that you like pirates.”

He smirked.  “What about the others?  I  _know_  Shiv’s got things to say about me.”

“If you know that already, then why ask?”

“To see what I got to do to set the record straight.  See, I heard lots o’ good about you from Mush, an’ Tumbler, an’ Dave, an’ other guys.  What you’ve heard about me is that I like pirates and I got viciously stabbed by a remorseless criminal masqueradin’ as a nice young lady.  How’s that fair?”  It wasn’t clear if he meant the stabbing or the spread of information pertaining to it.  “So I want to know if there’s anythin’ else you’ve heard, ’cause it may or may not be true.”

She gave a nod, already searching her memory for anything else someone may have said.  Nothing came to mind.  When she admitted as much, she added, “But it was enough to make me curious” to soften the blow.

“That’s alright.  This way, you can hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.  Listen, I’ll level with ya.”  He sat up straight, chest puffed out as he declared, “I am an incorrigible flirt.  I figure as long as you’re not married, or engaged, or some other guy’s girl—”  Her eyes dropped away from his, just for a second, until she forced herself to meet his gaze again.  When she looked up his head was tipped to one side, and she thought he looked far too understanding for her to bear.  His tone softened a little.  “—a little flirtin’s not goin’ to hurt anybody.  I’m not a bad guy, an’ I won’t lie to ya.  I can’t promise I won’t fall a little bit in love with ya, but I’m willin’ to take that chance.  Otherwise, if ya really don’t want me to stick around, I’ll get lost.”

The odds of him falling in love with her to any degree were laughably low.  The opposite, on the other hand: “Aren’t you afraid that it’ll be the other way around?  If you go around flirting so—”  Indiscriminately?  Irresponsibly?  “—freely, surely there are young ladies all over this island head over heels for you.”

“Most girls don’t take it so seriously.  They know it’s just for fun.  What’s wrong with passin’ the time havin’ a laugh with a good-lookin’ member of the opposite sex?”  He shrugged, careless.  “Yeah, every once in a while somebody’ll start to get attached.  But in that case I make myself scarce until the problem goes away.”

“What about me?  If a handsome fellow like you pays too much attention to someone like me, she’s bound to get the wrong idea.”  Surely he had to acknowledge that much.  Everyone knew that if you gave a homely girl the slightest attention she would lose her head and her heart and who knew what else.

“Nah.”  His expression was shrewd.  “Not you.  You got too much sense to take a guy like me seriously.”

“Right.  Sense.”  She leaned back.  “That most attractive and highly prized of feminine traits.”

His laughter was bright and unabashed.  Probably nothing shamed him.  Such freedom must be delightful.

“Can you tell?  When someone’s not interested, that is.”

“Sure.  I may only have one eye, but I’m not blind.”  From his grin and the twinkling in his said eye it seemed clear that he’d been waiting to use that line.  Had she been feeling less cautious she’d have rolled her own eyes in response.  “Girls are good at givin’ the cold shoulder, or tellin’ ya off.”

“I meant more can you tell if there’s already somebody else.  A husband or a sweetheart to worry about.  It’s got to be dangerous if you can’t.”

He scowled.  “It can be dangerous even if a girl’s single an’ alone.  There’re obvious signs, like rings, or if a girl won’t shut up about her Prince Charmin’.  Otherwise…”  He rolled his shoulders in a languid shrug, then paused as he considered his next words.

They weren’t exactly what she’d expected.  “Lots o’ people are out there lookin’ for something.  You get to where ya can tell if you’re what they’re lookin’ for, even on a temporary basis.”

It did not need to be said aloud that he was not what she was looking for.  Whether or not he knew that she had someone specific in mind, her cheeks burned with sudden anger and humiliation, and she dropped her gaze from his.  How foolish and desperate he must think her, how pitiful, how laughable.  She risked a glance at his reaction, gritting her teeth against the worst before raising her eyes.  His half-smile slackened as their eyes met; he sucked in a breath, as if taken aback by her anger.  Then, inexplicably, a new smile began to spread across his face.

“There,” he said, “that’s perfect.”  Confused now, she frowned, lifting her head, wishing she had a biting retort ready.  He ignored her expression and went on.

“If you look at a fella ya like the way you were just lookin’ at me—except maybe less like ya wanted to murder him—it’ll knock his socks off.”

Judith’s frown deepened.  Was this advice?  Was he giving her tips on how to flirt now?

Should she be taking notes?

“See, look,” he went on, demonstrating.  He lowered his chin, looking for all the world like he was studying the tabletop; then he raised his eye to hers.  The lashes that fringed the blue, the coy angle, the way he looked away and then back, the sweet smile: she’d seen these things all a thousand times before, but never directed at her; and interested or not she had the sudden urge to giggle.

“Like that,” he said, straightening up, the winsome expression disappeared.  “Those eyes…”  He shook his head, then thumped a fist against his chest.  “When ya looked at me like that it hit me right here.  Those eyes are all ya need.  Be careful with ’em, though.  A guy could fall in love with those eyes before he knew what hit him.”

After hearing that, she couldn’t possibly look at him.  It took all of her willpower not to hide her face, almost certainly crimson, in her hands.  People had complimented her eyes before, of course; it was the one thing they could be relied upon to be kind about, absent any other options.  But no one had ever told her what power they had.  That was more than a compliment; it was a gift.  When she raised her head this time he was smiling.

“I want to know somethin’ about you that none o’ those other fellas know.”  That seemed unlikely; she was hardly going to unburden herself to a virtual stranger.  But then Blink pushed back his chair and offered his hand.  “I want to know what it’s like to dance with ya.”

How could she say no to that?

* * *

Before they’d left Pauline had shown them her present from Calvin, a series of portraits Judith had done of her.  She looked lovely in all of them, self-assured and delicate at once.  Still, Hana had shot a frustrated glance at her own smirking sweetheart.

“Told ya,” he’d muttered as they walked to the ballroom.

“There is still time,” she’d returned, with a jab of her elbow to his ribs for good measure.  He’d reeled away melodramatically, though since her arm was tucked through his, she’d stumbled into him. 

Because, while their courtship had proceeded in a deliberate and measured manner, as if following a timetable, it would be utterly romantic for Calvin to propose on Pauline’s birthday.  Too romantic for him to resist.  At least that was what Hana was betting on; otherwise she would have to make a cake for Roman and endure his gloating about being right.  If it were only the cake, she wouldn’t mind.

Upon arriving they’d claimed a table, and then taken to the floor.  Just before Judith was due to meet them an unexpected member had joined their party.  Now Blink and Judith, the oddest of companions, sat at the table as the others danced.

“You should’ve seen her face when Dave said he wasn’t comin’.”  His own face screwed up in sympathy.  For all that he liked to pretend not to care about others, he never could keep up the charade for long.

“You can’t blame him for having to work.”

“No.  But I can blame him for bein’ too dumb to recognize when a girl wants to dance with him.”

“Luckily you are not so dumb.  But sometimes I think you don’t want to dance with me.”  She pouted up at him, adding a slow blink for good measure.

Though his eyes lingered on her lips for a moment he refused to take the bait.  He did, however, tighten his grip around her waist so that she slid closer.  “You know I never turn down the chance to hold ya,  _miláčku_.” 

He’d gotten his hair trimmed not too long ago.  The change was hardly noticeable; now she supposed the casual observer might think he looked a little neater, a bit more polished than before.  But of course she was no mere casual observer.  She was the world’s leading expert on Roman Kučera, and was making new discoveries on the subject all the time.  Like now, when her fingertips were tracing over the skin between his collar and his marginally-higher hairline.  

“Better be careful,” he warned, voice low. 

“Careful?”  She pretended ignorance, wanting to hear what he said, to hear that he wanted her.  “Why?  What could happen?”

He tugged her closer still, flush against him; they fell out of step with the music for a moment.  “Pauline wouldn’t like it if I dragged you out o’ here.”  His lips moved against her ear as he spoke.  “And if you keep touchin’ me like that, I’ll have to.”

At that moment she wished that this wasn’t Pauline’s birthday, that her own morals were less stalwart, that he would make good on his promise and pull her out into an alley, where she’d happily kiss him for the remainder of the evening.  It was difficult, but eventually she slid her hand back to his shoulder and took a step away from him, out of danger.  A heartbeat later they were waltzing again. 

“You are a good man,” she said.  She tempted him again and again, was impatient and greedy and far too willing.  A man who was not so good could have coaxed her into doing any number of things that she would regret later, no matter how much she enjoyed them in the moment.  Roman didn’t take advantage, though he had plenty of opportunities to.  He kept her safe—from herself as much as him—because he knew her, knew what she really wanted, knew that beneath her desire she was ashamed of it and scared of its consequences.

He ducked his head to drop a quick kiss on her lips.  “I’m workin’ on it.” 

His words were a reminder that she should be trying as hard as he was, should at least be attempting to live up to his perception of her goodness.  It was easy enough to know where to start.

If Roman, who was intimately acquainted with loneliness and melancholy, who had suffered loss and wracked himself with guilt, said that someone else was sad, it was best to believe him.  Even if that person was currently dancing with Blink, her steps markedly more precise than his, her posture more erect.

“What can we do for Judith, so she is not so sad?”

He looked at her wonderingly, adoringly.  “Let’s go talk to her,” he said, pulling her from the dance floor, just as the song ended.  “She hasn’t smacked Blink yet, but who knows how long that’ll last.”

Contrary to their expectations, he was the one who looked ready to hit someone as they walked up.  “What’s goin’ on?” Roman asked, pulling out a chair for her. 

“Judith was just tellin’ me how great it is sailin’ across the ocean.  She’s done it twice.”  Sounding offended he crossed his arms tightly over his chest, face set in a fierce glower.

Roman raised a one-shouldered shrug.  “I didn’t think it was all that great.  Hana liked it, though.”

The unfamiliar eyes on her made her squirm; she shifted her own gaze away, between them, to remember. It brought a smile to her lips. “Yes. I liked the wind on my face, and how it smelled. How fresh it was.” To Roman she had gone on, about the spray making rainbows in the air, the salt scent that she’d never smelled before, the frightening blankness of the horizon, beyond which a land of promise awaited; for now, to them, she’d said enough. When she looked at them again Judith’s expression was thoughtful.

Blink’s, on the other hand, was irate. “You too?” He looked at each of them in turn. “All o’ you have been out on the ocean an’ not me?”

“Sorry, pal.” Roman clapped a hand on his shoulder. While he tried to calm the wounded Blink, Hana addressed Judith, her voice just loud enough to cross the table.

“What was your favorite part of the crossing?”

Her eyes went far away, too. “All of the colors. The way the water and the sky were never the same twice, always changing and always beautiful.” Then she flushed, flinging an embarrassed smile at Hana before looking away again.

“Did you take many pictures of it?” she asked, keeping her voice gentle.

“No. But one day I will.” Of this Judith was sure; her chin lifted, her tone firm, her eyes determined. Hana nodded.

Then she looked around: at Judith; at her sweetheart and his friend; at Pauline, arm in arm with the man she loved. All of them with plans, hopes, dreams, and the strength to see them through. It was as good a birthday wish as any she’d yet made:  _one day we will_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	125. The Ballet (23 October 1905)

There was a bounce to Mr. Till’s stride that he tried to hide.  “Cooky!  What are you doing on Wednesday night?”

She didn’t bother to glance up from the inventory list in front of her.  “I had planned to rob a bank.  It couldn’t hurt matters,” she added in a mutter.  They were doing fine, but supplies seemed to grow more expensive every year.  Of course it would help if she stopped giving away prints in order to make friends… 

As expected he ignored her.  Rocking on his heels, fingers tucked into his hip pockets, he suggested, “I thought you might like to go to the ballet.”

Despite his wording, this had little to do with what she wanted.  She had realized years ago that the phrase “I thought you might like to” preceded an event that Mr. Till himself was keen on attending but could not do so without a suitable escort.  He had male friends with whom he could go to baseball games and the races, but there were places where a single man would stand out, even be unwelcome; a man squiring a young woman, on the other hand, would draw no undue attention.  In the past he’d thought she might like to go to a costume ball, a flower show, a few musical revues, and shopping for a bonnet for the Easter parade; to this last she had said no, though now she might volunteer Pauline in her stead.  They hadn’t yet been to a ballet.  

She had seen a few recitals when she was young, watched the daughters of her parents’ friends twirl around in pale pink tutus and severe buns, and afterward vehemently refused her mother’s offer to enroll her in a dance class.  Better to dance alone in the safety of her own room than risk the derision of other girls, who knew how to cut you so it felt like you’d never stop bleeding.

“At the Hippodrome?” she asked now in pretended innocence. 

“No, not at the Hippodrome, you philistine, at a real theater.  I’m not one of your urchins.”  She laughed under her breath at his disgruntled expression.

“I already checked the schedule,” he went on, “you don’t have any appointments.  Appointments here, I mean; you might have a rendezvous elsewhere that I don’t know about.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  Silly as his suggestion was, it made her blood freeze for a moment, wondering if she’d been found out.

She did not dignify the insinuation with a response.  “I am free,” she said, “as always.”  When it looked like he was about to protest she cut him off by asking, “When do I need to be ready by?”

Mr. Till beamed.  “Six thirty.  And wear your best!”  

“Your wish is my command.” She bowed and he left, laughing.

* * *

David arrived as she was gritting her teeth while Papa’s latest customer laboriously counted out her money, complaining all the while about the cost of her print.  “Thank you,” Judith sighed at last as she accepted the handful of change and handed over the woman’s photograph, secure in an envelope printed with the studio’s name and address.  “Do come again.”

She let her smile drop when the door swung shut behind her.  Before David could speak she said, “I can’t leave now.  Mother won’t be in until this afternoon.”

He frowned.  “I thought she was usually here around this time.”

“Usually,” she agreed with a nod, settling behind the desk.  “But we switched today so I can go out tonight.”

“You’re going out?”  His frown deepened.  She took it as incredulity.  It did nothing to improve her mood.

“Yes, Mr. Jacobs, out,” she snapped, glaring up at him.  “I do have a life outside of this studio, you know.”  That seemed a lie to her, one that only made her angrier.  Telling him now that her big evening out was only to escort Mr. Till would do nothing but make her feel more pathetic than she already did.  She took a steadying breath.

A muscle in his jaw jumped.  “Alright.  I hope you have a good time tonight,” he said, his voice tight.

“I’m sure we will.”  So maybe she emphasized the  _we_  a little; maybe her answer was as sickly sweet as his had been curt.  At this point he didn’t deserve to know the truth.

He nodded, nostrils flaring.  “Great.”  The bell above the door jingled as customers entered; his eyes flicked toward them and then back to her, and she saw that they were as clouded as skies threatening a downpour.  He didn’t exactly storm off, but he didn’t look back before he left, either. 

Her annoyance cooled the moment he was gone; the click of the door behind him brought on a wave of regret so intense it verged on panic.  It hadn’t taken her long to run him off after all.  She swallowed down the lump in her throat and smiled at the newcomers.  “Good morning.  How can I help you?”

* * *

By six thirty she was dressed.  Properly attired wasn’t the same as ready, though; ever since David had left she’d felt uneasy.  Doubt plagued her: what if this was what made him realize that their friendship—that  _she_ —wasn’t worth the trouble?  He was a reasonable man, she argued herself, he would give her an opportunity to explain.  Of that she was fairly sure.  What would come after she had no idea, and that was what had her stomach in knots.  Knowing that hunger would only make her more irritable, something that Mr. Till did not deserve, she choked down a thick slice of buttered pumpernickel.  It sat like a brick in her gut.

He was bouncing when she opened the door, and his smile widened upon taking her in head to toe.  “My, you do clean up nice,” he said.  He’d seen the dress before, but the sash she wore with it was new, at least.  When she returned the compliment it was not merely out of politeness: Mr. Till’s tuxedo suited him well, and he knew it.  Even his mustache was gleaming.

As she locked the door behind her and they descended to a waiting cab, she reflected that it wouldn’t have been so difficult for Mr. Till to marry if he’d wanted to.  Even Yankee women were not immune to his manners, and when courtesy alone didn’t do the trick he’d been known to thicken his mild drawl until it was as sweet and smooth as honey over biscuits.  With his playful nature and eye for all things beautiful he could have female admirers aplenty, if he only applied himself a little.  But, she supposed, marriage would have fewer benefits for a single man of his persuasion than it would for someone like her.  No one thought twice about a man working or living alone, but for a woman to do the same things, whether out of preference or necessity, was unnatural, or so it seemed.  Why would a man like Mr. Till trade his freedom for a veneer of respectable domesticity?  There were likely arrangements, marriages between similarly inclined people, that were mutually satisfying and beneficial; if she asked he might even be able to tell her about them, though that topic was far beyond the bounds of their relationship.  All she knew was that she wasn’t sure she’d give up her work even for a lifetime of bliss with her perfect match.

It wasn’t likely she’d have to find out. 

Mr. Till played the role of doting escort well, checking their coats, picking up programs, and showing her to their seats.  Not long after they arrived the orchestra began tuning, and soon a line of ethereal ballerinas floated onto the stage, all lithe limbs in pastel robes.  From the corner of her eye she saw that Mr. Till was enthralled, leaning forward ever so slightly, thumbs keeping time against his thighs.  She smiled faintly before shifting her focus back to the stage. 

As beautiful as the display was, it didn’t move her.  The story was timeless—the pretty, downtrodden peasant girl would win the prince’s heart and earn the crown that was the right reward for her goodness—and the dancing astonishing; she coveted the costumes and sets.  But as much as she could admire the skill that went into the production, it left her feeling empty.  There was a melancholy in beauty merely observed, beauty so far removed from one’s self.  Degas had the right idea.  Instead of portraying his ballerinas as if from the audience he painted as if among them.  Their backstage rituals and rehearsals evoked a camaraderie that Judith felt part of when she saw his art.  Watching the ballet she felt alone, especially during the prince’s duet with his beloved.  It was trite and predictable and it stung all the same. The heroine leapt; the hero caught her; and the marvel was not just the romance but the work behind it, the dancers’ individual strength and their complete trust in each other.  

Mr. Till raved about the performance all through their after-show dinner.  His eyes were bright, his gestures animated.  And when he thanked her for accompanying him his happiness flowed into her, soothing her hurts. 

* * *

She watched the door all morning, fingertips drumming the desk.  Her vigilance was rewarded; when he entered she was across the room to meet him almost before he’d pulled off his cap.  Though his jaw was set she felt relief course through her, nearly making her knees weak.

“Davey,” she said, voice low.  He’d come back again; maybe there was still hope.  But she had to stop testing him, stop pushing him away and trusting that he’d keep coming back.  Though she didn’t want to, she forced herself to meet his eyes.  He was worth a dose of humility.  “I’m sorry.”

“What was that about yesterday, Judith?”   _Judith._ Her heart fell.  For every step toward him she took, she stumbled back two.  The frown was still there, but whereas yesterday it spoke of anger, today it conveyed confusion and concern.

She ached to touch his hand, just once.  It would be so easy, she thought; with the simplest of movements she could feel his skin under her fingertips, and maybe in that contact he would understand more than she could say.  Yet something so easy was also impossible, calling for an audacity that she cursed herself bitterly for lacking.  She twisted the silver ring around her finger.

“Let me explain it to you.  Over coffee?”

She leapt; and with a nod he caught her.


	126. Shabbat (27 October 1905)

A while ago I had the idea that Judith might invite David to a Friday night Shabbat dinner at the Cooks’ home.

  * As I am not Jewish, I’m doing my best to present information that is accurate in a respectful manner.  If I’ve gotten anything wrong, please let me know! 
  * Thus far Judith has had dinner with David’s family, but the reverse has not happened yet.  This is in part because she is very conscious of the disparity in their families’ wealth—the Cooks aren’t rich, but Mrs. Cook came from money and Mr. Cook owns part of a business.  Their finances, to Judith’s knowledge, have never been truly precarious; she’s never had to sacrifice anything so the family could eat.  She hopes David doesn’t hold her family’s prosperity against her, and, after seeing how his family lives, feels guilty about her life. 
  * But eventually she decides that she’s been rude in not reciprocating the invitation.  So, with her parents’ blessing, she asks him to come to Shabbat dinner.


  * This feels like a HUGE thing for Judith.  It’s one thing to ask a friend out for coffee, another to invite the object of your affection to dinner with your parents, and a third altogether to want him to share in a religious ritual with your family. 
  * So why does she do it? 
    * Maybe it’s just time.  Maybe this is her way of signaling—to him and to her parents and to anyone else involved—that he is important to her, no matter how he’s in her life. 
      * (Maybe to other Jews inviting a friend to Shabbat wouldn’t be such a big deal.  This is Judith, though.)
  * In [October 1905](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.hebcal.com%2Fhebcal%2F%3Fyear%3D1905%26v%3D1%26month%3Dx%26yt%3DG%26nh%3Don%26nx%3Don%26vis%3Don%26c%3Doff%23cal-1905-10&t=NzQyYWQ0NDdhMWY3MWFjNjQ3NzBkMmMyZjkzNTE0Zjc2MWVmNmZjMCxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) there was the second half of Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot, so it was a pretty busy month.  The first non-holiday Friday night was the 27th.
  * I wondered if Dave would even be able to go, as he’d have to walk back home afterward, and I wasn’t sure how far he could walk without it counting as work.  According to [Chabad.org](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.chabad.org%2Flibrary%2Farticle_cdo%2Faid%2F484235%2Fjewish%2FHow-far-am-I-allowed-to-walk-on-Shabbat.htm&t=NzdiNmEzMDY1NzUwMzdmMTI4ZjAyMjNjODE5YTRlZDliMDRkZjY1NixUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1), on Shabbat you can walk up to 2000 cubits (3049.5 feet, or 0.596 miles) OUTSIDE of one’s city, but no further.  [Torah.org](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftorah.org%2Ftorah-portion%2Fparsha-halacha-5777-vayishlach%2F&t=NWY0ZjFlNDE3OGIwNzlkMWViYTMwM2MzNThjZDgwYjg3NGI5YzhmZSxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) clarifies that you can walk as far as you want inside your city without violating Shabbat.  
    * (If this hadn’t been the case, another option would have been for him to arrive on Friday afternoon and stay for all of Shabbat.  This would have been way too much for Judith to handle.)
  * Chabad.org also has [a calculator](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.chabad.org%2Fcalendar%2Fcandlelighting.htm&t=MTRiZTRkOGFhOTEwMTUyMDAyMTUzMjhkZWYxNTU1YjJlNzI4NTUyYyxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) that tells you when to light the Shabbat candles according to your location.  It doesn’t go back to 1905 (I don’t think), so I used [October 26, 2018](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.chabad.org%2Fcalendar%2Fcandlelighting.htm%23locationId%3D10458%26locationType%3D2%26save%3D1%26tdate%3D10%2F26%2F2018&t=OGIyYmU1Nzg1MzI5ODQ2ZjFkYWQ5ZDE2ZTAwZGM2NzA5ZGFhY2QwZixUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1), and on that date the candles should be lit at 5:41 PM in New York City.  The candles are lit 18 minutes before sunset.
  * As I understand it, men are supposed to go to temple before Shabbat begins (while women prepare the home).  I don’t know if Dave would be able to leave work, maybe change clothes or at least tidy himself up a bit, and make it uptown in time to go with Mr. Cook. 
    * On a somewhat related note, one of the kinds of work that’s prohibited on Shabbat is carrying stuff.  If David wants to bring a gift of any sort he’s supposed to get it there before sundown. 
    * That being said, though, if Denton got wind of this event, he’d probably encourage David to leave early on Friday—after he gets his work done—so that he doesn’t have to rush.  
    * This must be killing Esther.  She wants to give Davey advice so that the dinner goes well and the Cooks realize what a bright young man he is; at the same time she’s confident that she raised him well and trusts him to handle it on his own.  And of course she knows that if she shares her wisdom too emphatically or frequently it’ll only cause him to dig his heels in and ignore her out of sheer stubbornness.
    * Mayer is probably less concerned with the impression David’s going to make at dinner than with the possibility that he’s going to hurt Judith—by accident, of course, but that won’t make it any better.  He knows his son can be brusque sometimes, and that [his best intentions occasionally have unintended consequences](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/157380292347/6-we-trusted-you-for-anyone-other-than-jack), qualities that have led to tears before.  Add to that his suspicion that Judith’s affection for his older son is not strictly platonic and you have the recipe for a broken heart.  
      * The day has come when Jack Kelly is not the greatest cause of worry for members of his family.  We won’t tell him, as I think part of him would be loath to relinquish his crown. 
    * So let’s say Dave’s able to leave work in time to go pray with Mr. Cook.  I’ll leave you to read [Everything You Need to Know About Shabbat Services](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Freformjudaism.org%2Fjewish-holidays%2Fshabbat%2Feverything-you-need-know-about-shabbat-services&t=NTVmNWFkZTUyMzNhZTc5NjE3NWEwOTc0YmJhODRmODQyOTQzZGFjMSxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1)for more info.
  * Meanwhile, Judith is at home stressing.  
    * (For half a second she considered wearing the dress she bought for Pauline’s party but dismissed the idea.  It isn’t suitable for Shabbat, no matter how pretty it makes her eyes.)
    * (A few times she’s looked at herself through her lashes in the mirror, trying to see what Blink saw.  She’s yet to be convinced there’s anything there, but doesn’t wholly disbelieve him either.)
    * The last time David was in her house he said all of those things about her worth and what she deserves.  Letting him in again makes her nervous and excited in equal measures.
      * He and her parents have all met before, at the studio and the train station, but this will be the first time they actually have a chance to talk with David.  Suddenly this feels too formal, too loaded.  Why did she invite him?  Why did he accept?  What does he think is happening?  There’s no way to ask, and she shuts the door deliberately behind them. 
  * “ _Gut Shabbos_ ,” he says when he enters.  
  * Papa seems happy to have another Ashkenazi dude in the house.
    * (There is debate online about whether or not it’s a good idea for people from different branches of Judaism to marry.  To me many of the opinions expressed on the subject sound like they’re saying that the differences are as much cultural as they are religious—some people phrased it as a matter of which spouse would be expected to take care of the other in the different traditions.  There is plenty of anecdotal evidence online that supports the idea that relationships between Jews of different traditions can work out fine, so I feel secure in saying that Isabela and Tobias’ marriage is not doomed to fail.
    * Likewise, the editors of the Ladino-language newspaper  _La Bos del Pueblo_ , published in New York City, [wrote in 1916](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fstanfordpress.typepad.com%2Fblog%2F2014%2F08%2Fa-russian-jewish-woman-in-new-york-seeks-dating-advice-in-1916.html&t=NDhjMDQ5Y2ZjZTBmM2JiMjhhMWMyMzE1YThiMjc5OGZmMDQwOWFjMixUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) that “we don’t see an inconvenience in the intermarriage of the Sephardim with the Ashkenazim.  There are many examples of Sephardim living with Ashkenazim in the greatest harmony.  The important thing is the the two have the same level of education and that they be capable of adapting themselves to each other.”) 
    * (Also, regarding my earlier headcanon about Judith not understanding Yiddish: she understands about as much as any other New Yorker would, like “oy vey.”
      * Who doesn’t understand “oy vey”?
    * But neither she nor her mother is fluent in Ladino (or Lusitanic, which was extinct by that time), either.)
  * Anyway, Miss and Mrs. Cook respond with “ _Shabbat shalom_.”
  * Most likely they would have already lit the candles before he arrived.  He might be surprised to see only two candles, in the Sephardic custom, as opposed to the Ashkenazi tradition of having one candle per family member.
  * (During Shabbat, some parents say a blessing over their children; it can be done after lighting the candles, or before or after blessing the wine.  It’s not clear to me if this blessing is for all offspring or just minors, but [this article](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.myjewishlearning.com%2Farticle%2Fblessing-the-children%2F&t=NjdjZDZhMjU1ZTAxY2FhZDM0N2E1YzRkZjI1NDcyODI5ZGMxNTY4MixUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) says that “In some families with grown children who no longer live at home, this blessing is imparted over the phone on Fridays.”  I also don’t know if this blessing can be extended to your kid’s friends as well.)
  * Papa feels a little shy about singing in front of a stranger.  Luckily David is less shy, and joins in wherever he knows things.
  * Judith didn’t realize that he had a nice singing voice.  He shouldn’t quit his day job, but it’s solid and pleasant to listen to. 
  * Especially when they get to “ _Eishet Chayil_.”
    * “ _[Eishet Chayil](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.zemirotdatabase.org%2Fview_song.php%3Fid%3D92&t=NGM3NjgzZjUxYWQyOGQ5MTBlYTMzMTQwZGZkNjA2Njk1YzlhMDcyYixUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1)_ ” is generally translated as “woman of valor.”  With text taken from Proverbs 31:10-31 it’s a song praising (Jewish) women for being rad, for taking care of business both literally and figuratively.  It’s traditionally sung by men to the woman of the house, showing their thanks to and respect for her who prepared their meal and the house for the Sabbath.
      * (I like [this gentleman’s rendition](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dwad54Ie2xRQ&t=NjI5YTYwYWU4Mjc1NWZhNjBhNGY3YWFhMWUzNDRkYWM3NTc1NGE0NyxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1).)
    * There is nowhere safe to look.  She can’t look at him— 
      * _A woman of valor, who can find?  Far beyond  
__pearls is her value.  Her husband’s heart  
__trusts in her and he shall lack no fortune_
    * —But then of course she does.  And as if just looking at him isn’t bad enough he looks over at her and their eyes meet.  Electricity courses through her, all the way to her toes, and she knows her face must be crimson.
  * Somehow she makes it through [Kiddush](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.myjewishlearning.com%2Farticle%2Fkiddush%2F&t=NjExZDVlMzhlZjA3YmYwNzdlMDcyNWU1YWJlOTBjMDA0NjAxZGYwZCxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1), washing her hands, and [Hamotzi](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.myjewishlearning.com%2Farticle%2Fhamotzi-the-deeper-significance-of-the-blessing-over-bread%2F&t=ZmMzYzNkYjZiMTcyMTk1YWNiNDJlYmI3ODRiMWU3ZGYyNzU5NTQ5YSxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1).  
  * One of the main differences that David would notice would be the food.  Mrs. Jacobs’ cooking is Central European; Mrs. Cook’s is a mixture of Mediterranean and New England.
    * Please refer to the [potato Europe/tomato Europe](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fgoo.gl%2Fimages%2FbwjY5c&t=NzkxOTljY2U1MTY0ZmNjMTIzMDFlM2MwZGJmMjgxNjZkZjllNmIzYSxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) map for reference. 
  * Mrs. Cook goes all out for the occasion, making Portuguese dishes that she’s sure David won’t have tried before.  There’s  _caldo verde_ , a collard green and potato soup; chicken with preserved lemon; and  _alheiras_ , the non-pork sausages allegedly invented by Portuguese Jews during the Inquisition so that they wouldn’t stand out so much from their Christian neighbors, who kept ropes of sausages hanging around their homes; not to mention the challah, wine, and dessert.
    * It’s a lot.  Judith probably says this to her mother while it’s all cooking, and Isabela replies that they haven’t had any of these dishes in a while and she wants to make a good impression on their guest. 
  * Over dinner Mother notes that  _[Vayeira](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.myjewishlearning.com%2Farticle%2Fparashat-vayera%2F&t=YWFkNDI1YWI5YjFjOWZkNWRhMTg3OTllNjUwZjYyNmM5YjRlMTQ2MCxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1)_  is a fitting portion of the Torah for a time when they have a guest.  Dave says that while he certainly appreciates their hospitality, he’s got little in common with Abraham’s and Lot’s visitors.  Papa politely disagrees; they were messengers, and isn’t being a reporter—and formerly a newsboy—similar?  David laughs (the sound of him laughing in her home, seated at their table, fills her chest near to bursting) and replies that the newspaper owners only think they’re God.
    * “My sister’s name is Sarah,” he goes on, “and we’re all glad she an’ her husband didn’t have to wait so long for their baby.”  His smile is as close to tender as she’s ever seen it, and it nearly takes her breath away.  “Jack’s not the most patient guy, but even he knows that there are things worth waitin’ a century for.”
  * Her mother asks David more about his family and he’s happy to answer.  His affection for all of them is plain in the stories he tells and the expressions on his face as he shares them.
    * “But Davey,” Judith says innocently when he’s done, “aren’t you forgetting someone?”  
His brow wrinkles.  “I don’t think I ever told you about my [Bubbe Gilda](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/tagged/bubbe-gilda).”  
“You haven’t.  I meant a pretty little thing with long strawberry blonde hair and a lively spirit.”    
David groans over her snickering.  He does go on to tell her parents about Nell, though, all the while shooting her dirty looks as she hectors him not to leave out all of the details of Nell’s accomplishments and beauty.
  * Papa expresses interest in the print shop Mr. Jacobs works in, and David promises to deliver some information about it later.  Judith expects Mother to ask about David’s education next, or his plans for the future, but she doesn’t pry.  It’s clear she’s pleased with what she’s heard.
  * At first Judith is a little annoyed at that—she wasn’t seeking her parents’ approval.  She and David are merely friends, after all.  Still, knowing that they seem to enjoy David’s company lifts a weight from her.
  * Once they’re done with dinner David helps carry the plates into the kitchen.  He offers to wash, insisting that it’s no trouble; Mother tells him the dishes can wait, and he should sit.  
  * Instead he stands talking to Papa for a moment.  She’s only half-listening, until she hears the question she should have anticipated but didn’t: “Mr. Cook, you’ve got to have pictures of Judith from when she was little, right?”  
“No,” she snaps at the same time Papa says “Of course,” turning to fetch an album.  It’s a hopeless cause, but she turns to David to plead her case.    
“This isn’t fair.  I won’t get to see any pictures of your childhood.”  
“No.  But I promise the next time you come over my folks an’ Les’ll tell you all the embarrassing stories you can stand to hear about me.”  
She feels a hot wave creeping up her neck.  More quietly—though her parents know this already—she warns him, “I was not a pretty child.”   
His smile drops; it’s all she sees before her eyes dart away from his face.  She doesn’t want to disappoint him, doesn’t want his pity.  After a beat he matches her volume.  “Alright.  If you really don’t want me to see, I won’t.”   
At the last second she remembers to lift her head, not just her eyes; now is not the time for him to be inadvertently stunned, if that would indeed be the outcome.  His eyes are understanding, the tilt of his mouth encouraging.  He’s already heard the worst about her; these photos can’t do any more damage than that.  She sighs, adding a resigned wave of her hand.  “Go ahead.”  
When Papa hands him the album he drops onto the settee before opening it.  She can’t see what he’s looking at, and hardly remembers what photos are in it, but he’s smiling.  “Children can be hard to photograph,” Papa explains, lest anyone think him less than skilled at his job, “and it was even harder in the days when we needed longer exposures.”   
David nods, turns the page, and chuckles.  “How old were you in this one, Dita?” he asks.   
She avoids her father’s eyes as she moves closer and cranes her neck to see.  The photo was taken in Newport; in it she sits in a miniature sailboat that belonged to a family friend.  Though the shallow water around her is calm, and an adult must be standing just out of frame, her features are still fuzzy as she grins at the camera.  “Six, maybe?” she hazards.    
“Here, sit down.”  He pats the seat next to him.  “What about this one?”   
There are pictures of her parents dressed for dinner, of her mother looking glamorous, of assorted relatives and friends.  Then there are shots in the studio of the days when she would help her father by posing: in different lights, different fabrics, different positions.  How ironic that the child of a photographer should be so much less than beautiful, and have her image recorded so many times.  Arranged chronologically like this, it’s impossible to miss the way the model’s—because Judith isn’t sure she’s the same person as the one in the album—smile faded as she grew. 
  * Stuck in the back there’s one last photo, one she hasn’t been expecting to see.  Papa asked if she would pose for a series of close-up shots, each one progressively nearer to her face, so that he could see the minimum distance needed for a clear picture.  Afterward he let her use the resulting prints to practice her tinting.  One of those pictures is fixed in the album now.    
Her eyes fill the frame, staring down the lens, unflinching under their dark brows.  She remembers studying them in the mirror, turning her head this way and that to catch the irises shifting in color (a vanity unmatched until recently), and poring over her selection of pigments in an attempt to recreate the hue.  The results are not perfect, not as true to life as she wanted—she thought so at the time and thinks it now—but the eyes are striking, especially when confronting the viewer unexpectedly.  Once her surprise dies down she’s a little proud.  
“I didn’t know you kept that,” she says to Papa.  
“Of course.”  Papa smiles at her.  “Why wouldn’t I?  It turned out so well, even though you were still learning.”  
“Yeah,” David murmurs, though he doesn’t add anything more, staring down at the album.  She sees him swallow before he shuts the book and hands it back to Papa with a weak smile.  
  * He seems reluctant to look at her, even after she’d warned him, and that rankles, and stings.  But he doesn’t move away as he answers a question Mother asks.  It’s impossible not to wonder what that means, what he’s thinking, though she tries not to.
  * Before too much more time passes he has to head home.  Papa leads them in [Birkat HaMazon](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Freformjudaism.org%2Fpractice%2Fprayers-blessings%2Fdaily-blessings-birkat-hamazon-grace-after-meals-long-version&t=ODU0MjYxZDcyYTYzYjU3ODAwZDg0MDVjMjAwNWUwNDk2YmE4MzcxMSxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) to give thanks for their meal.
    * _Praised be our God, of whose abundance we have eaten, and by whose goodness we live_. 
  * When they’re done he thanks them for having him and they thank him for coming and it’s a little silly how thankful everyone is to each other.  Though she’s got nothing in mind to say she walks down the stairs with him.  There are all kinds of paradoxes to attraction, she’s finding out, like the subtle yearning she feels even when he’s right next to her, or the satisfaction alongside unfulfilled anticipation.
  * At the door he opens his mouth, but she recognizes the shape of his thanks before it leaves his lips.  “Oh, don’t,” she cuts him off, uncertainty making her snappish.  “You thank me again, I thank you again.  Consider it done.”  
He chuckles.  “Alright.  But am I allowed to say the food was good?  And I enjoyed the company?”  His eyes sparkle, mischievous; she averts her gaze.  
“If you must,” she sniffs.  
“Consider it done,” he parrots.  Her lips twitch up at that, of their own avail.
  * He turns halfway toward the door, leans so he can see the dark of the sky outside.  “Ya know, when you come to our place for Shabbat dinner—”   _When_ , not if, as if he’s already asked, as if she’s already accepted  
    * as if she could say no
  * “—Mama’s not goin’ to want you to leave.”  He peeks back at her.
    * It’s logical: the longer the year lasts, the earlier night will come.  [Having guests stay overnight for Shabbat](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.chabad.org%2Flibrary%2Farticle_cdo%2Faid%2F78063%2Fjewish%2FImpediments-to-Inviting-Guests.htm&t=NWEyYzlkZWE5MzNmYmZjMjkzMzM2NTVkNWYxZGE1MjYyN2UxM2YzYyxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1) [isn’t unheard of](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.aish.com%2Fsh%2Fht%2Fbs%2FHow_To_Be_a_Good_Shabbat_Guest.html&t=NDE1NjIwOTQ1MzBiNjRjNmI1Yzk2OWRjNjhhOWRiODhlOTUwYzlmYyxUd2pDeEFRUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178997590210%2Fa-while-ago-i-had-the-idea-that-judith-might&m=1), though they’ve usually traveled more than the blocks between their buildings; and staying would mean no one would have to walk her home on Friday night.  It would simply be a matter of convenience for the beloved Jacobs sons.  That’s what she’ll keep telling herself. 
  * Anyway, he’s talking about what his mother wants, not what he wants.  If she thought it was his idea, his wish to have her stay…  
“Hmm,” she says, with an eyebrow arched, and leaves it at that.
  * After a little pause he says good night.  A gust of cool air sweeps in as he goes out, and she shivers.
  * It’s not exactly dread that simmers in her stomach as she climbs the stairs again, but it’s something close.  She’s afraid of what her parents might say, what they’ve been assuming since she said she wanted to invite him over.  She’s worried that they’ll think she’s getting her hopes up for something that may remain forever out of reach.  
She finds her parents in the kitchen.  “He tried everything,” Mother says with satisfaction, “and there’s not too much left.  My cooking must not be that bad.”  
Papa throws his head back to sigh at the ceiling.  “One time I say the brisket is burned, and for the rest of my life I have to suffer for it.”  Mother grins at her as Judith sneaks another piece of marzipan.
  * “Of course he’s a polite young man,” he goes on, as if rebutting some unspoken claim to the contrary.  “And smart.”  
“Too smart,” she grumbles, “and he knows it.  Dinner was good, Mother.”  
They take the hint and say no more about their guest. 
    * But the quiet only makes it clear that they’re all thinking about him.
  * Later she thinks about Sarah—not Sarah Kelly, but Sarah from the Torah.  Sarah was old; Sarah laughed; Sarah was blessed.  It sounds so easy.  
    * And maybe it is.  Maybe it can be.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: NEXT TIME DAVE FORGETS TO TALK ABOUT NELL I’M BRINGIN’ HER TO MEET EVERYBODY IN PERSON!


	127. Sweetness (7 November 1905)

“Will you get to see them for the holidays?  The CAS is Christian—does that mean they all get Christmas off?”

Les had stopped by while she was straightening up the workroom, and when she’d jested that he should help instead of just standing there he’d grabbed the broom and started sweeping as they chatted.  Granted, his sweeping wasn’t terribly energetic, but the fact that he’d put any effort into it at all was endearing.

He paused now, leaning on the broomstick while he answered.  “Animals don’t take any holidays, so there’s still chores they gotta do, no matter what day it is.  Sarah don’t mind working on Christmas, o’ course, and I don’t think Jack cares much as long as he gets a couple days o’ freedom from Cordelia Muttonchop.”  Les chuckled and she joined him, picturing the dire scowl Jack wore when discussing the dastardly fowl.  “But that means that they’ll probably get to come down for a few days o’ Hanukkah.  Maybe at the end, ’cause that’s when Dave’s birthday is.” 

Aha.  The answer to a question she hadn’t thought to ask.  “Oh?” she said, keeping her tone light.  “What day is that?”

“The 28th.  He’s goin’ to be 23.”  Goodness, that sounded young.  Judging from Les’ expression he rather thought the opposite.  “At least it’s not as bad as a Christian kid havin’ his birthday on Christmas every year.  Davey’s is only around Hanukkah every couple o’ years.”

“What about you?” she asked.  “When’s your birthday?”

He shrugged, then gave a backward jerk of his head.  “Back in September.  I’m 16.”  He looked proud and shy at once, and she put aside her rag.  Of course he would have been considered an adult since his bar mitzvah, but outside of temple 13 was rarely thought to be a responsible age.  Sixteen was a slightly more credible age at which to be taken seriously.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” she said solemnly.  “Turning 16 certainly deserves a present.  I hope now isn’t too late?”

His face flushed pink.  “Aw, you don’t have to get me anything,” he protested.  He returned to sweeping, his eyes averted from her.  “I mean, thanks, but you don’t got to put yourself out.  “I don’t need anythin’ anyway.”

“Not even lunch?” she wheedled.  “We can go down to Iceland & Katz.  Get a nice big pastrami sandwich, with a little mustard, and a dill spear on the side?”  Her own stomach grumbled at the idea of tender pastrami piled high on rye bread.  Iceland & Katz had the best pastrami she’d ever tasted; going down there would be worth the trip, even if he didn’t want to accompany her.

In answer he gave a careless shrug.  “I guess I could eat.”  His nonchalance was belied by the sparkle in his eye and the suddenly increased pace of his sweeping.

Long after a lunch as mouthwatering as she’d expected it to be, her thoughts returned to the Jacobs boys’ birthdays.  David’s she put aside for the moment; there was plenty of time to think of something for him, though she didn’t believe that it would be easy.  It would have to be something that would strike the proper note, thoughtfully chosen without seeming too personal or ostentatious.  She could and would agonize over that later.  For now she mused on what to give Les—who’d said that she didn’t  _have_  to get him anything, not that she  _shouldn’t_.  She was sure her good-natured assistant/apprentice would appreciate any gift he received from her; that didn’t mean she would just get him any old thing, though.  She let the matter percolate in her brain for days before an idea bubbled to the surface, and when it did she had no second thoughts.

* * * * *

Twice she had to ask for directions: to the building itself, and then, once inside, to the Jacobs’ apartment.  It was not an encouraging start to her quest.  Standing in front of their door—or what she hoped was their door; it looked familiar, but all of the doors on this floor were similar—she took a deep breath before knocking. 

Mrs. Jacobs answered.  “Judith.”  Her eyes widened for a moment before she smiled.  “How good to see you!  Come in.”  She pulled the door open wider and waved Judith in. 

As the door shut behind her Judith turned to see Mrs. Jacobs studying her with no little interest.  “David’s not here right now,” she offered.  From the way she was watching, concern and curiosity alike on her face, Judith wondered if she was supposed to look upset.  Even if she had maybe hoped to see him, she wasn’t yet that pathetic.  She smiled instead. 

“How about Les?  He’s the one I’m here to see.”

“Ah, he’s out, too, but he should be back soon.  Would you like to wait?”

“Um…”  She would like to give him the present in person, watch him open it and see his reaction.  “Yes.  If you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Jacobs beamed.  “Of course not.  Here, sit.  Can I offer you some tea?”

“Only if you’ll have some too.”  Judith set Les’ present on the table and shed her coat, hanging it on the back of the seat her hostess had indicated.  From it she could watch the older woman put a kettle on the stove and then fetch cups and saucers, spoons and sweeteners from various cabinets.

“There’s honey,” Mrs. Jacobs said, nodding to a squat glass jar full of amber liquid, “Sarah sent it from Valhalla.  But we also have this.”  It was the color of rubies, though less viscous than the honey, and the label on the bottle was in a language she didn’t recognize.  “Raspberry syrup.  It’s good against colds, especially with winter coming.”  She glanced toward the window with a fretful frown, as if expecting to see frost crawling up the glass.

She was feeling fine, but it might placate Mrs. Jacobs if she tried the syrup.  “That sounds delicious,” she said, and was rewarded with an approving nod.  When the tea was poured she filled her teaspoon from the bottle of syrup, then stirred it well into her teacup.  The syrup added sweetness and a reminder of languid late summer that was welcome with the year so close to changing.

They drank in silence for a moment.  The room was warm and just as tidy as she remembered; she noticed the portraits she’d made scattered around, in little wooden frames that may have been handmade.  It was a true home, she felt, a place where relatives were deeply loved, where children were cherished.

After another sip she set down her cup.  Tapping a finger against the side of the present she said, “I wanted to get Les something for his birthday.  Now I think maybe I should have asked if that would be alright.”

“Is it something dangerous?”

She swallowed a chuckle of surprise.  “No.”

“Then it should be fine.  Of course we weren’t expecting you to get him anything—you know it wasn’t necessary.”  There was a crease between her eyebrows as she peered at Judith.

Who shook her head.  “No, I know.  But I wanted to get him something.  Even if it means that now I’ll have to give David a present for his birthday, too.”  She rolled her eyes, only half in jest, and Mrs. Jacobs chuckled.

“My sons are very fond of you.”  Judith couldn’t blame her for the appraising look in her eyes; she was certain that same look had been on her own mother’s face when David had come over for dinner.  She felt her face warm and dropped her eyes to the teacup in front of her, tracing the blue-and-white pattern with a fingertip.  The statement caused some measure of embarrassment, but it was slight and outweighed by pleasure.  And she didn’t doubt it, not for a second; he motherly face across the table simply wouldn’t possibly lie to her.  The only way to keep from smiling at the idea was to bite her bottom lip.

“It makes me happy to hear that.  Very happy,” she murmured.  Then she raised both her eyes and her voice.  “They’re wonderful young men, probably the best I know.  And Sarah—Sarah is an excellent young woman.  You must be so proud of them all.”  The moment the words left her mouth she felt queasy—no, not ill: ancient.  She meant them, wholeheartedly, unreservedly, but they made her sound like an old maid.  All she needed was a pair of spectacles to perch on the end of her nose and some knitting.

Mrs. Jacobs didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.  “We are.  And of Jack, and our little Daniel.”  She sipped her tea with a contented expression that had nothing to do with the beverage.

“And David says Sarah’s expecting again.   _B’sha’ah tovah_.”

Her smile widened as she nodded.  “I shouldn’t say so, but I hope this one is a girl, like my sweet Sarah.”  While she took another sip, eyes misty, Judith wracked her brain for something to say on any subject rather than this one.  The dreaded question was sure to follow:  _When are you going to have children?_ And if it didn’t come, it was almost as bad; it meant the interrogator doubted that anyone would ever marry her to father those children.  The panic rose and her eyes darted around the table, searching for something to say.  Nothing came to mind; as Mrs. Jacobs set down her teacup Judith lifted hers and took a gulp, burning her tongue.

And, miraculously, no questions followed.  “I know your parents must be proud of you, too.  Such a good artist you are, and an important part of the family business.”  Mrs. Jacobs graced her with a maternal smile, one Judith was sure she didn’t deserve.  Murmuring something like thanks, she touched the ring on her finger, and then immediately wished she hadn’t.

“Oh, isn’t that pretty.”  Mrs. Jacobs was doing her best not to squint as she looked at it; the last thing Judith wanted to do was draw more attention to it, but trying to hide it now would be inexcusably rude.  She extended her hand toward her hostess.

Mrs. Jacobs was motherhood personified, longsuffering and gentle, firm and fair.  But could she understand this?  Would she believe that Judith simply liked the ring, and harbored no lingering good feeling toward the giver?  More crucially, would she believe—no matter what her son said—that the fault lay with Judith for Heitor’s behavior?  Would she see a stain on her for once having been promised to a criminal, an uncleanness that she wouldn’t want to infect her children?  Maybe it would be better for her to know now, before Judith’s heart slipped further from her chest and into David’s hands.  It would already batter her to have to leave this family behind.  She couldn’t bring herself to share the story now, not when she hadn’t gotten to see Les yet.  Slowly, cautiously, she withdrew her hand.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Jacobs said, rising gracefully to turn into the kitchen and uncover a pot.  A delectable, homely smell of chicken, herbs, and potatoes filled the room as she stirred.  “Will you stay for dinner?” she asked over her shoulder.  “It’s just soup, but we have plenty.”

Tongue still smarting Judith managed, “Oh, I can’t impose.  In fact,” she went on, standing, “I should probably get going.  Can you tell Les—”

“Tell me what?”  Cold air swept into the room as he entered, a package under one arm that he handed to his mother.  He turned to Judith with an inquisitive smile, loosening the collar of his coat.  “Hiya, Judith.  What’re you doin’ here?”

Having tossed his cap aside he pushed his hair back from his forehead with a gesture that reminded her of Jack.  A personality such as Jack’s would easily influence those around him, for good or ill; if David’s stories were to be believed Jack had been a bit of a hellion in his youth.  How must a protective mother like Mrs. Jacobs have felt about her children, especially one at an impressionable age, associating with someone like that, someone rough and wild, however good-intentioned he may have been?  Whatever her reservations, she seemed to have overcome them. 

Judith regarded her as Mrs. Jacobs gazed fondly at her son.  If she could overlook Jack’s past, maybe she could do the same with Judith’s.  Mrs. Jacobs turned her smile, still kind and warm, Judith’s way; an ember of hope flared in her chest, and she swallowed hard and had to look away.

“Waiting for you.”  Without ado she swept the present from the table and deposited it in his hands.  “Happy birthday.”

He looked up from the present to her face with wide eyes.  “What?  I told ya—”

“Yes, yes, I know.  I  _wanted_  to get you something.”

He turned the box over in his hands for a moment, giving it a subtle shake as he did.  Judith hid her grin.  “What is it?” he wondered aloud, shooting a glance at his mother. 

“Why don’t you open it and find out?” she suggested.  All it took was a nod from Judith before he started working the wrapping paper free. 

The box gave it away, decorated as it was with a green-and-yellow label depicting a rotund and grinning imp holding a box camera.  “A Brownie?” he demanded, as if unable to believe his eyes.  Carefully—as he’d been taught—he slid the camera out of its box to examine it from all angles.  With his features so intent and focused he looked all of his years, like a youth on the cusp of manhood, ready to take on the world. 

“It’s only six exposures—the film is on a roll, not a plate like ours—and of course it isn’t as professional, either.  But if you’ve got a good eye and the right skills you can take good photographs, no matter what equipment you use.  I have great faith that your photos will turn out beautifully.”

“Unlike Dave’s.  You should see some o’ his pigeon portraits.”  He snickered and looked up from the camera—a simple rectangle of cardboard covered in dark leatherette, with an inexpensive lens and a shutter at one end—with a devilish grin.  The mischief faded, replaced by sincerity.  “Thank you, Judith.  This’s great.”

“When you finish the roll, let me know if you need an advance on the fee for getting it developed.  I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”  She winked, at which he nodded.

“Maybe you can take a family portrait at Hanukkah,” Mrs. Jacobs suggested, “if you haven’t used it all up by then.”  Only six shots could go quickly, though Judith trusted him to be thoughtful and discerning. 

He, too, waved away the idea.  “Nah.  I’ll make sure to save one.  An’ that way maybe I’ll be able to pay for the developin’ with some Hanukkah gelt.”  He gave his mother an angelic smile, one that dissolved into laughter when she rolled her eyes and swatted his shoulder. 

“Happy birthday, Les,” Judith said again.  “I’m so glad to have met you.”

That sentiment made him blush, cutting his eyes to her and then the door, as if afraid of being overheard.  “Me too.  An’ I appreciate that you’ve been willin’ to teach me.  It’s been fun.”  After a nod he again glanced toward the door before returning his attention to her.  “Don’t ya want to stay for dinner?”

It was Mrs. Jacobs’ turn to raise her eyebrows and smirk.  “Not tonight,” Judith said.  “I just wanted to make sure you got your present.”  She pulled her jacket on.

“I can walk ya,” he offered, though she shook her head before he even finished speaking.

“It isn’t too late yet, and you’ve just gotten in.  I’ll be quite alright.”  After a second’s hesitation she stuck her hand out for him to shake; instead he put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to his side.  The gesture left her flustered, but happily so. 

“David will be sorry he missed you.”

“He’ll live,” she mumbled, fiddling with her buttons.  It wasn’t the right thing to say, not to his mother, and she cringed; but rather than take offense, Mrs. Jacobs disguised a little laugh with a cough.  They said good evening and she left them, the clatter of Mrs. Jacobs clearing away the tea following her out the door.

She made it across the street and half a block before she caught sight of David heading homeward.  A scarf wound around his neck and his cap shadowed his eyes, but the tips of his ears were pink with the evening’s chill.  Maybe she could slip past without being noticed and make it home with some of her self-respect intact. 

Of course, the moment she thought it, he looked her way, and recognition flashed over his face.  “Dita, hey!”  In case she hadn’t heard him he waved.  Unable, and unwilling, to avoid him now, she stopped.  When he reached her he glanced over her shoulder; recognition of his building behind her piqued his ever-present curiosity.  “Were you comin’ to see me?”  His smug expression said he thought she certainly had.  

She crossed her arms over her chest, giving a slight shake of her head to accompany her words.  “Honestly, David, the ego on you.  If you must know, I was here to give your brother a birthday present.”

“What’d you get him?”

“Go upstairs and he’ll be happy to show you.”  Casually she added, “I also had a nice chat with your mother.”  Let him stew over what they may have talked about.  He didn’t have to know how nervous she’d been over that cup of tea. 

“You talked to my ma,” he said, incredulous, “an’ she didn’t invite you to dinner?”

“Of course she did; Les did, too.  But I can’t stay, and I’ve already told both of them that.  How would it look if I go back up there now?”

“Like I charmed ya into stayin’?”  His eyes danced, making him seem less like the businessman his briefcase implied and more like a cheeky schoolboy.

Her eyes swept over him, up and down; though it was by no means her intent, she couldn’t help but admire him.  All the same, when her gaze returned to his face her eyebrows were quirked in question.  “This is charm?”

Someone passing behind jostled her and she stepped forward, closer to David.  The crowded streets of New York were good for something after all, it seemed.  He steadied her with a hand cupped around her elbow.  The gentle pressure remained even after the danger had passed; warmth flowed down to her fingertips and up to her shoulder.  She did her best to ignore the tide of contentment that the touch conjured. 

“Anyway, you’d have to ask more nicely than that.  Like Mr. Till says when he thinks I need a reminder to treat people with kindness and consideration—”

“You?  Need a reminder?  Never.”

She ignored the smirk that broke out on his face and leaned forward, let her voice go husky as she passed along the Virginia wisdom: “—‘Be sweet.’”

Her pulse was rushing now, though not from fear, as his eyes widened for a split second.  Then it was just possible that they darted to her mouth before meeting hers again—possible, but more likely wishful thinking.  Her arms uncrossed; she should have felt exposed, vulnerable, but his hand had moved with her and there was wonder in the tilt of his lips. 

“Let me see you home.”  The words came out in a rush and the pink spread from his ears to his cheeks.  Then, seeming to take Mr. Till’s advice to heart, he dropped her arm and tempered his enthusiasm.  “I mean, may I?” he asked politely.  His eyes, on the other hand, were still impatient and impulsive.

_Say yes.  Say yes and perhaps he’ll offer his arm as you walk uptown.  Say yes and ask about his day, listen to the rise and fall of his voice.  Say yes and spend a few more minutes by his side, see his smile in the lamplight, share a slow goodnight outside your door.  Say yes and fall a little further._  

She nodded toward his building.  “Your dinner is waiting, David.  Aren’t you hungry?”

A shadow flickered in his eyes.  “It’s fine.  It’ll be there when I get back.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you,” she teased, lightening the moment.  “Les is a growing boy.  Everything could be gone before you even made it to my house.”

Eyes closed he shook his head.  “Dita, c’mon.”  Frustration laced the words; she wondered at that. 

“Good night, Davey.  See you tomorrow?”  That was supposed to have been a statement, not a question, but her voice had other ideas. 

Though that open smile she knew so well didn’t appear, he did soften, and that nearly had her recanting her refusal.  “Yeah, o’ course.  Be careful, alright?  I don’t…”  He searched her face for a moment before letting out a muted sigh.  “Just be careful, please.”

“I will.”  She nodded and smiled and, as she stepped around him, reached out to touch his hand—just a brush of skin against skin, a few seconds of contact that could have been accidental.  But she felt the tingling in her hand and heart the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katz’s Deli was first run by the Iceland brothers under their name. By 1903 Katz had joined them, with the name changed to reflect the addition. If you ever find any better pastrami than Katz’s anywhere, please let me know. 
> 
> B’sha’ah tovah = Hebrew for at a good hour/in a favorable hour. Some Jewish people don’t offer congratulations until after the baby is actually born.
> 
> JACK: “EVERYBODY KNOWS SHE’S DAVE’S GIRL EXCEPT DAVE” is RIGHT!!!!!


	128. Meta: Fake Dating

Fake dating is one of my favorite tropes.  That got me to wondering how it would work out with my girls, were they all single.

**Gussie**  thinks she would be a wonderful sweetheart even if no one else thinks she’s old enough.  She would, however, happily pretend to be someone’s little sister…for the right price.

**Hana**  might be amenable to pretending to date someone if she knew him beforehand.  Say a young man, a nice waiter with big brown eyes, was being harassed by his friends for not having a girl to take to a party.  Would she mind going with him?  She’d be doing him a real favor, and he promises to be a gentleman.  And he is in fact respectful, a little shy, and protective of her around his friends.  At the end of the night, when he asks her to go out again for real, she’s happy to say yes.

The one I really wanted this to work out for was  **Judith**.  Maybe David has a work function that he needs a date for, or maybe he just wants to convince his mother to leave him alone about finding a nice girl.  Either way he asks Judith to pretend to be his girl, just for a little while. What he sees as a perfect solution–they spend time together already, so it wouldn’t be awkward for them to go to a dinner or two, and it’d save him trouble if he could get his good friend to do him this favor–is less appealing to her, and she says no.  It’s not because she doesn’t like him, doesn’t want to do him the favor, doesn’t yearn to spend time with him; it’s that she doesn’t want to pretend, especially not with him.  She can’t say yes, even if he looks confused and hurt at her denial.  In a story she’d eventually blurt out that she liked him too much, that it would hurt her too much to only pretend; her confession would make him realize that his affection for her wasn’t merely platonic, and he’d ask if she’d like to go out to dinner instead. But Judith knows that her real life is no romance, and that she’d only be setting herself up for heartbreak, and has to say no. Look, the object of this trope isn’t to make me sad, but the girls have to stay true to themselves. For Judith that means being stern with herself and with David to protect her heart.

If someone came up to  **Pauline**  and asked her to pretend to be his girl for a little while, she’d think it sounded like fun.  Though she wouldn’t let common sense get away from her in the process, she would be the best darn fake sweetheart a guy has ever had.  Even if the guy was Blink.  If she agreed to go out with him of her own free will, they’d probably actually have a really good time.  They could be quite the dynamic duo if they ever decided to work together.  But if she only went out with him because of some kind of trickery–if she lost a bet, or if he sidled up to her, crying, “There ya are, gorgeous!” and throwing his arm around her, whispering in her ear to play along–then her revenge would be comprehensive.  Her fawning achieves its purpose (probably keeping another girl at bay) and at first he’s smug about the success of his ruse.  But then she gets clingy, calling him increasingly soppy pet names, refusing to let go of his arm, and generally making a nuisance of herself.  It fills her with glee to see him gritting his teeth, trying to hide his frustration.  That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still try to steal a kiss for his trouble.  He still doesn’t get away with it.


	129. Café (28 November 1905)

“Come home with me,” Judith said on impulse.

With Papa’s approval she’d gone out to do some errands and had run into David doing the same thing a few blocks away from the studio.  When she’d waved he’d turned to his father and spoken briefly; Mr. Jacobs took the package David was carrying and nodded at her, smiling under his mustache.  She felt a little guilty that David had abandoned his own family’s shopping to help with her family’s, and that was on top of the guilt she felt over leaving her parents at the studio, even if they weren’t terribly busy.  She wasn’t so stupid or so proud that she would turn down the chance to spend part of a Sunday morning with him, though. 

Now her cheeks heated at the way she’d just propositioned him, and her mouth clamped shut.  He chuckled, quietly enough that the sound wasn’t mocking; his eyes still danced, though, and she could tell he was on the verge of some smart-alec comment.  

“If you don’t keep your mouth shut I won’t make you any coffee.”  

His grin ratcheted higher, but he didn’t say a word.  She gave him one more sharp glance before spinning around and heading for home.  He didn’t speak as he fell into step next to her, both of them threading through the crowd and dodging piles of slush as they walked. 

_Come home with me_ , she seethed to herself.   _Next thing you know you’ll be begging him to marry you_.  And it would take begging.  Before long the air had cooled her cheeks, but her annoyance at herself took longer to dissipate. 

Outside her building, in the shadow where the sun hadn’t shone yet, lurked a dark patch of ice.  Papa had pointed it out that morning, and they’d all carefully skirted it as they left.  In her present pique she’d forgotten about it and strode forward until she was no longer striding but sliding, feet scrabbling for purchase and arms splaying out in an attempt to keep her balance.  Her heart hammered in her chest; then suddenly it raced forward even more quickly as an arm caught her waist.  With eyes still wide she looked up from the sidewalk, right into David’s face.  The concern in his eyes ( _such a warm blue_ ) eased as her feet found dry concrete.  She knew she should step out of his grasp; but with her pulse pounding and her head reeling, it seemed safer not to move for a moment.  He met her gaze and her lips parted.  The movement, slight though it was, was enough to draw his attention.  Then he blinked away and smirked. 

“Careful,” he teased, or maybe warned.  

Judith felt her face scrunch into a scowl.  She stepped cautiously but neatly out of his hold, ignoring the chill that swept through her.  It would be too unladylike to hit him, but she was sorely tempted.  She pushed the door partway open, then looked back at where he still stood.  Her scowl deepened for an instant–she was a fool–before she sighed.  

“Come on,” she said, beckoning with a tilt of her head.  He hurried to join her. 

After kicking the slush off his shoes against the bottom step he followed her up the stairs.  “I was afraid for a second there that you wouldn’t let me in.” 

“You still have my shopping,” she groused.  They stood at her door as she fished out the key; once it was unlocked she opened it and let him in.  “Besides, you saved my life out there,” she simpered as he passed.  “How could I not reward you for that?”

“Doing a good deed is its own reward,” he simpered right back.  His smarmy smile and pious tones were so spot-on that she nearly forgot that she was annoyed and giggled.

When he’d carefully wiped his feet yet again, smiling in satisfaction all the while, he lifted the bag.  “This go in the kitchen?”

She nodded, closed the door, and hung up her coat before joining him there.  “Take your coat off,” she directed, putting the bag aside, “and then have a seat on the settee.”

He did the first as she put the percolator on the stove, but ignored the second.  She raised an eyebrow in question.  “But you’re in here,” he answered.  He leaned up against the icebox, arms crossed low and loose over his stomach, and watched her.  Probably he just preferred to be near the heat of the stove after trudging through the chilly streets.  No matter that that explanation made more sense; her belly still fluttered at his words, at the way he looked so confident and comfortable in her home.  

“You just want to be close to the coffee,” she accused.

His laugh was quiet, and one shoulder lifted in a shrug.  “That too.”

She bit her lip and turned her attention back to her task.

The everyday coffee was in a jar on the counter; there was even some already made and leftover from breakfast.  That wouldn’t do, though, and Mother wouldn’t mind her sharing some of her better brew.  The scent of it, rich, earthy, almost sharp, filled the kitchen as Judith spooned the grounds into the percolator; David sniffed the air appreciatively.  She left the kettle to work and hunted through the cabinets for something to serve with the coffee–there was usually a tin of cookies secreted away for just this kind of eventuality–and for a mug.  Mother might frown to know that she was eschewing the formal tea service, but even she would admit that David was not the teacup type.  

It wasn’t until the coffee was nearly ready that she realized that she was alone in her house with a man she wasn’t related to.  She paused, mug in hand, to peek over at him, wondering if the same thought had ever crossed his mind, if he had any idea what his presence there might suggest.  As far as she knew, no one in her building thought she was anything other than a hopeless spinster.  But now there was a handsome man in her kitchen, and for all she knew her reputation might be ruined. 

Then she decided that she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her, at least not at that moment.  And she certainly wasn’t going to turn him out before he’d had his coffee.  She was very aware of his eyes on her as she filled the mug; he straightened and was reaching for it before she’d even finished pouring.  “Just a second,” she said, turning away with the mug still in hand. 

“Hey!  Dita,” he whined.

Her voice was all sweetness as she asked, “Yes, Davey?” 

“Quit teasin’ and give me that.”

When his questing fingers brushed her sleeve she gasped and started forward.  “Don’t make me spill it!” she chided over her shoulder.  With the threat of wasting any of the precious liquid he withdrew immediately.  She added the finishing touch before turning back and presenting him with the drink. 

His expectant expression twisted into mild outrage.  “What is that?”  He pointed at the mug. 

“A cinnamon stick.”  She gave the coffee a stir with the cinnamon.  “Some cafés in Portugal serve it this way.  It gives it a little extra flavor.”  

Doubt was writ large on his face.  “Coffee doesn’t need extra flavor.  It just needs to be coffee.”

“Hmm. And here I thought a worldly, curious, sophisticated man like yourself would be happy for the opportunity to learn about another culture, and to try something new.” She met his stare evenly, her lips curving up in a smile of challenge even as she wondered if she’d gone too far this time. The problem with teasing him like this was that he might not know she meant all the things she said about him.

His eyes darkened as they took in her smile. It was clear his mind was working; it was not clear at what, and her confidence began to wilt. At long last he all but growled, “Give me the coffee.” Their fingers brushed as he took the mug from her; she steeled herself against the shock that ran through her, and against the disappointment when he registered no response to the contact. He lifted the mug to sniff deeply. Despite his distrust of the garnish, his features relaxed as he inhaled the steam. She watched his eyes close, his fingers tighten around the mug, his breathing slow. Then he lifted it to his lips and sipped.

His face transformed with something as near to ecstasy as she’d seen on another person.  The noise he made was just as appreciative and fervent. She knew she ought to look away, maybe even to leave the room, but couldn’t seem to do it; she did step away from the stove, its heat no longer needed to warm her up. David drained most of the mug before slumping against the icebox again. Then he seemed to remember that she was there, because he blushed and licked his lips.

“You’ve ruined me,” he said, cradling the cup so tenderly that she more than half thought he was addressing it, not her. “How am I s’posed to drink Tibby’s coffee ever again after this?” His eyes were mournful, right up until he took another pull from the mug. Then they smiled, and she felt her stupid heart lift.

“I think you’ll manage,” she said, even though she knew how it felt to be ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: HOW’S THAT COFFEE, DAVE?!?!?!??!?!?!


	130. Accusations (29 November 1905)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

**Q.**

**David, how's it going with Judith?**

 

A.

Jack, just because you called me “David” instead of “Dave” and didn’t sign the letter doesn’t mean I can’t tell it’s you from your handwriting and the postmark from upstate. Everything’s fine. Now will you leave me alone about all this? I’m already dealing with Mama’s questions; I don’t need you in on it too.

Your (disgruntled) pal,

Dave

 

**Q.**

**You call her by a pet name nobody else uses. She invites you home and makes you the best coffee you've ever had.  You still want to pretend that everything's just "fine" between you two, Dave?  If Jack can tell something's going on from a whole other town, maybe it's time to admit there's something going on.**

 

A.

DAVID: WHO IS THIS?!?!

 

**Q.**

**Calm down, Mouth, it's just me.  If ya hadn't been gushing about that coffee so much you would've been okay, but now all of Tibby’s knows how great it was.  That's not really the kind of thing people want to hear while they're choking down the mediocre stuff, ya know.  And waiters aren't deaf, we can hear what you call her.  But listen, if you want to talk about anything, you know where to find me.  I'm no expert when it comes to women or relationships, but Hana’s taught me a thing or two.**

 

A.

Dear Skittery,

I don’t think I was “gushing,” and I don’t think I’m going to ruin Tibby’s coffee business.  And I don’t think using a nickname automatically means you’re courting someone, either.  (At least, if it does, you’d think the happy couple would be aware of it, and not rely on being informed by friends who like to gossip and speculate.  [Not you’d know anything about that.](http://jackcowboyhero.tumblr.com/post/172944630362/jackcowboyhero-dear-roman-for-some-strange))

But if I need any help, I’ll let you know.

Cordially,

The single-handed scourge of restaurant coffee sales.


	131. Pretending (3 December 1905)

Why, she wondered, did they call him Kid Blink if he was so old? 

Both Gran and Tumbler had told her that she wasn’t supposed to ask people how old they were, so she kept the question to herself, even though it wasn’t exactly the same as asking how old he was.  Grown-ups were funny about things like that. 

Tumbler was still a kid, like her, but he was trying to look tough and serious as Blink talked to him.  Between sales she listened to their conversation.  Gran always reminded her to mind her own business; but if they were talking about her then it was her business, right? 

“That your partner?”

Tumbler shrugged.  “Guess so.”  He didn’t sound as grumpy about it as he used to. 

“She’s cute,” Blink said, eye sliding to her.  Maybe he was old, but his eyepatch made him look kind of dashing.  It was just too bad he was blond.  “She any good?”

“She’s cute,” Tumbler answered, flat as old Coca-Cola.  She hid a smile and sold another paper.  Even if she didn’t like Tumbler like that, it was nice to know he thought she was cute. 

Blink watched her for another minute, his expression thoughtful.  “Mind if I borrow her for a minute?”

Tumbler shrugged.  “It’s up to her.”  But he duly raised his voice to call, “Hey, Gus, c’mere,” and she trotted over.  “You met Kid Blink before, right?  An’ this’s Gussie Carmichael.”  He clapped her on the shoulder before stepping a short distance away, hefting his papers again.

“Nice to see you again,” she said, because even if he was a fellow newsie he was also an adult.  He grinned.

“How would ya feel about doin’ me a favor?”

At Sunday school, when she went, they talked about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.  That was a fancy way of saying you ought to be nice to people so they’d be nice back.  The Sunday school people would probably tell her to be happy about doing the favor.  She glanced over at Tumbler.  “What is it?”

Blink’s smile got wider.  Instead of answering her question he asked another one.  “You got a big brother?”

She shook her head.  Ma had died when she was little, too little to remember anything, and whenever Gussie asked about her pa Gran’s face got all pinched in on itself.

“What do ya say to havin’ one, at least on a temporary basis?”  At her confused silence he explained, “There’s a girl I’ve been tryin’ to meet, but I can’t get her attention.  I figure maybe she likes kids, though, ’specially cute ones who could be my little sister.”  He looked down at her with eyebrows raised; she made the same face right back at him.   _Did_  they look like brother and sister?  They had the same color hair, but their eyes were different—his blue wasn’t as pretty as David’s, but she guessed it was a nice enough color.

(It seemed like a long time since she’d seen David.  Tumbler probably knew where he’d been; he knew everything.  Maybe he’d even take her to see him.)

When she didn’t say anything back Blink muttered something under his breath before squatting in front of her.  “Here’s the plan.”  It sounded easy enough the way he explained it, and when he finished he gave her a hopeful half grin.  “What do ya say?”

Her face screwed up as she thought.  “You want me to do something for you, so you can get something you want,” she reasoned slowly.  That was the doing unto others that the Sunday school people talked about.  Blink nodded, a little hesitant; she cocked her head and asked, “So what do I get?”  Because that was the others doing unto her.

“I guess not the pleasure of doin’ a good deed,” he grumbled.  “I’ll buy ya lunch?”

She scowled.  “I can buy my own lunch.”  Did he think she was so bad at selling that she didn’t have enough money for a bowl of soup?

“So what do ya want?”

The question wasn’t what she wanted: it was what one thing from a long lost to ask for.  A carriage ride through Central Park?  A pack of colored pencils?  A velvet sash for her pink dress?  Different colored hair ribbons for every day of the week?  A bottle of perfume that made her smell like a grown-up young lady?  She’d made up her mind to ask for the carriage ride when a thought struck her.  “A pocketknife,” she said, and giggled when he reared back in shock.

“Not you too.”  He hauled himself back up to his feet.  “You sure ’bout that?  Ya wouldn’t rather have a doll or somethin’?”

She shook her head.  “I’m sure.  At least this big—”  She held her thumb and forefinger apart, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she measured an invisible blade.  “—and not girly.  That’s important!  Just plain, black or brown or somethin’.  Deal?”

After only a second of hesitation and a resigned shrug he shook her hand.  “Deal.  You usually sell ’round here?”  She nodded.  “I’ve never seen her on this block.  That’s good.  It means she probably won’t recognize you.  Ya got a minute?  I’ll show ya what she looks like.”

Gussie called to Tumbler that she’d be right back, then followed Blink down the block.  As they leaned around the corner she searched for the most beautiful woman, certain that would be her.

“That’s her,” he murmured.  His lips were turned up in a soft smile as he watched her.  Gussie peered at the young woman.  She had to be able to recognize her later; she also wanted to see what kind of person was worth all this scheming.

In winter it was hard to tell what anyone really looked like, with their shapes hidden under layers of coats and scarves and mittens.  The lady’s coat was fairly plain, as were her dark boots; the band around her hat was a stylish green-and-brown plaid, though, and the scarf wound around her neck was robin’s egg blue.  A leather satchel, like the ones the older kids carried to school, hung from one shoulder.  The face between the scarf and hat was round, with a complexion a shade or two darker than Tumbler’s friend Mush’s and a pleasant expression.  At first Gussie thought she looked like what Tumbler might call an easy mark—that meant somebody who would fall for any made-up story you offered about having a dead ma or no place to sleep at night unless you earned a couple more pennies.  Maybe she wasn’t, though; Gussie wasn’t good at telling the difference yet, since she assumed everyone would be kind to a little girl like her.  

The worst thing was that she wore glasses.  Gussie shuddered.  She would rather be blind.

“She’s not very pretty.”

From the corner of her eye she saw him frown.  “Sure she is.  You don’t think so?”  He didn’t wait before he went on.  “’Sides, there’s more to ladies than just bein’ pretty, ya know.  She’s intriguin’.  What’s she got in that bag?  Where’s she goin’?  I gotta know more about her.”

“I’ll meet ya here around four tomorrow, alright?”

She nodded solemnly.  “Alright.”

He tried to hold it in for a second before he chuckled.  “See ya tomorrow.”  He patted her cheek, not gently but not too rough, and then raised a hand in greeting to Tumbler.  “Tumbs,” he called; her friend waved back, and then Blink sauntered off.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” Tumbler asked when she returned to his side.  He sounded gruff and grumpy, but it only made her smile wider.

“I just made a good deal,” she boasted.  “Aren’t you proud of me?”

“I’ll be more proud when we sell all these papes.  Get a move on, will ya?”

“Sure thing.”  She started hollering headlines, and between that and her cheerful disposition the papers were gone in no time.

* * *

The following afternoon found Gussie pretending to admire the display in a dim shop window.  Blink lurked in a doorway at the end of the block; she could just see him, propped there carelessly, if she craned her neck.

When his whistle sounded she counted to ten before she turned and scanned the street, looking this way and that.  She caught sight of the young woman walking her way and gave a preliminary sniffle.  Producing tears was never a problem; all she had to do was think a few distressing thoughts and the rest took care of itself.  To start she wondered: What if this didn’t work and Blink yelled at her?  That would make her cry for real, but it wasn’t threat enough now.  What if he left her there and she couldn’t find her way back to her usual selling spot?  What if Tumbler wasn’t there when she got back, wasn’t waiting with a stack of papers and a sarcastic comment?  What if when she went home tonight Gran and Granpa weren’t there, and instead the room was bare and empty?  Or what if they were there but didn’t want her anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of their dead daughter and her good-for-nothing lover?  Tears streaming down her face she took a breath and let it out as a wail.

It was well-timed; several people turned to look at her but only one stopped.  Through her tears she could make out a blue scarf wound around the young woman’s neck.

“What’s the matter, honey?”  She had a soft voice with an accent Gussie had never heard before.  Like Blink had, she crouched gracefully next to Gussie.

She sniffled again, swiping a cuff over her eyes.  “I—I—I can’t find my brother,” she burbled.  Fresh tears flowed down her cheeks; the lady rummaged in her satchel before offering a handkerchief, on which Gussie blew her nose.  “I wanted to look in the window so I stopped for a minute an’ now he’s  _gone_!”

She put a hand on Gussie’s shoulder and smiled in a reassuring manner.  “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.  What’s your name, honey?”

“Gu-Gussie.”

From behind the glass of her spectacles her eyes searched the sidewalk, bright and alert.  “And what’s your brother’s name?” she asked patiently.

If she hadn’t truly been scared before she was well on her way now.  “Kid Blink” was not a real name.  If she said that now, the lady would think she was dumb.  But what was his real name?  Had he told her?  Had Tumbler ever mentioned it?  What was Tumbler’s real name, the one that his ma and pa had given him?  She gulped in a breath, hiccuped, and opened her mouth to wail again.

Even with her eyes screwed tight she felt the rush of air that accompanied his arrival.  “Gussie!” he cried.  “Where’ve you been?  I’ve been lookin’ all over for ya!”

His cap was askew and his hair disheveled; his one eye was wide and panicked.  Seeming to ignore the young woman he dropped onto one knee and clutched Gussie’s shoulder.  “Don’t scare me like that, sweetheart,” he said, voice ragged.

All of a sudden her tears were not so pretend, and she put her face into his shirt and heaved with sobs.  He froze for a moment before responding.

“H-hey,” he said, patting her back, “it’s alright.  You’re alright.  I’m right here.  I got ya.”

The patting became a rub between her shoulder blades.  When her crying quieted and she drew back he asked, “Y’alright?”  She nodded.  At the sight of her tear-streaked face and the resulting damp patch on his coat he just barely restrained a grimace.  “C’mon,” he said instead, “let’s get ya home.”

It wasn’t until he stood that he appeared to notice the young woman.  “Oh, miss!  Thank you for helpin’ find her.  I don’t know what I’d do if…”  He let the thought, apparently too terrible to finish, trail off.  “This’s Gussie, and I’m Louis.”

_Louis_?  Gussie blew her nose again to hide her disbelief.  Worn out from the crying, she leaned into his side. 

“May.”  Blink clasped her hand, gazing into her eyes, wearing a hint of that goofy smile from before.  When he let her hand go a cloud of disappointment passed over her face.  “And it was nothing.”

He shook his head.  “No, it was somethin’, all right.  How can I make it up to you?  Let me buy ya a coffee, at least.”

May smiled at him, her cheeks rosy with more than the cold.  “That would be nice.  But…”  She came to her senses for a moment.  “I can’t today.  I have somewhere I need to be.”

“How about tomorrow?”  He leaned toward her ever so slightly, like he couldn’t stay away, like he was that keen.

She bit her lip.  “I suppose tomorrow would be fine.”

“Great.”  He took her hand again, again locked eyes with her; any hesitation, real or pretended, faded away.  Then, just when Gussie thought he’d forgotten she was there, he looked down at her and squeezed her shoulder.  “Tell Miss May thanks.”

“Thank you,“ she murmured. 

“I’m glad you two were reunited."  She spared Gussie a smile before returning her attention to Blink.  “Shall we meet here at this time tomorrow?”

“I can’t wait,” he said, as sincere as she’d ever heard him.  They watched May go; when she was out of sight he grinned down at her.  

“Nice work, kid!  I owe ya.”  He made no mention of her reward, but she was tired enough not to press the issue.  

They walked back to her usual block, where he left her at the corner.  She made for Tumbler and cut off his “Hey” by throwing her arms around his middle.  “Oof,” he said, patting her head.  “You okay?”

“I’m fine now.”

* * *

The next morning Tumbler handed her her newspapers before reaching into his pocket.  “Blink said to give this to you,” he said, handing her a rectangle the size of her palm and wrapped in newspaper.  She prodded it with her fingers until she was sure it was what she thought it was.  

“Hey, Tumbler?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your real name?”

He paused, paper suspended in the air, to glance at her.  “Why do ya want to know?”

“I just do.  So what is it?”  She could stare him down, and they both knew it; it didn’t take him long to give in.  

With a sigh he looked around.  “It’s Andy,” he muttered.  “You happy now?”

Gussie beamed.  “Merry Christmas, Andy.”  She handed the package back to him; her smile didn’t change as she watched him open the pocketknife, and it only grew when he hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her close for a moment, whispering his thanks in her ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK: I ain’t sayin’ it’s right to con girls with Gussie, but I AM sayin’ Gussie makes an awful good con partner.


	132. Overthinking (12 December 1905)

I think Judith is determined that she’s not going to overthink this–she wants to simply enjoy any time she has with David without spending every second wondering where they’re headed.  Still, there are times–when she’s doing something like washing dishes, or cleaning the studio–when she starts to debate herself. 

_Does he like me?_

_That’s foolish.  He wouldn’t be around so much if he didn’t at least like you._

_Alright, but Les is around a lot, too.  Does that mean he–_

_Now that is stupid.  It’s far-fetched enough to think that one young man might have a romantic interest in you, let alone two.  You’re doing Les a service: giving him a place to go and teaching him skills.  Not very widely applicable skills, but skills all the same.  You both benefit from his presence, from each other.  What benefit does David get from you?_

_That is the question, isn’t it?  There can’t be much benefit in just looking at me._

_But he doesn’t seem to mind.  He sits across from you most days and smiles, at you, and sometimes touches your shoulder or your hand._

_That’s friendliness.  He’s like that with all of his friends.  Just like the nickname.  All his friends have one; I’m his friend; therefore I should have one, so I do._

_But does he say their names the way he says yours sometimes?  Like he’s so awfully fond of you–_

_He’s fond of plenty of people, I’m sure, that doesn’t mean–_

_–like you’ve surprised him.  I’ve never heard him sound so…_

_Sweet?_

_I suppose.  –So sweet with anyone else._ _And he doesn’t want that.  He doesn’t want sweetness._

_He was talking about tea, Judith.  It’s not the same thing._

_He’s a writer.  Maybe it was a metaphor._

_A journalist, not a poet.  He doesn’t go in for metaphors.  Just because he takes his coffee black doesn’t mean he’s opposed to affection.  To romance._

_I wouldn’t know.  I don’t know.  I won’t know._  

And so on and on, until the dishes are washed, or Mr. Till raps at the door saying, “Cooky, David’s here.”


	133. A na zemi pokoj (24 December 1905)

“Oh, Hana.  You can help me,” Miss Grace called from over the banister.  “Come up here when you’re finished with that, please.”

Once she’d put away the broom and dustpan and given her dress and apron a good shaking out Hana climbed the back stairs.  She found her employer standing in front of a wardrobe in one of the spare bedrooms.  The clothes hanging and those spread on the bed were all masculine.

Miss Grace sent her a distracted smile.  “Fold those for me, would you please?” She nodded at a pile of clothes on the bed before returning her attention to the shirt in her hands, then immediately looking up again.  “And check the pockets as you go.  I’ve already gone through them, but I might have missed something.” Hana got to work, folding as precisely as she could.

“He hasn’t worn this one in a while,” Miss Grace murmured to herself.  The shirt joined the pile on the bed.  “I’m not sure which of these things don’t fit right and which Thomas doesn’t like,” she explained over her shoulder.  “But this wardrobe must be cleared out before Christmas.  Mrs. Hayes is likely to give us—him, especially—enough to fill it all over again, and if it isn’t empty I’ll have to start hanging things over the railings.”

The idea of these fine garments strewn up and down the banisters and dangling from the light fixtures caused her lips to twitch with amusement.  Miss Grace would likely share a laugh with her over such a situation, or at least she would at another time, when she was less preoccupied.  Mrs. Vande Kerk or Mrs. Roth would find nothing about it funny in the slightest.

“If you know anyone who could wear any of the things in that pile, feel free to take them,” Miss Grace added.

Hana stared at the mound of wool, linen, cotton, and tweed.  None of them would fit Tatko, she knew—not that he had been the first man to come to mind.  No, she pictured the other man in her life in a fine dark suit and a sharply knotted tie.  For a moment her mouth went dry.

Unfortunately, as easy as it was to picture him looking well-dressed and handsome, it was just as easy to picture him tugging at the tie with a dark scowl on his face.  He wouldn’t like being thought of as a charity case; if he were feeling obstinate enough he might even refuse to wear the things.

They sorted and folded in near-silence for a while.  It was companionable; as much time as Hana spent working alone, she enjoyed sharing a task with someone else, even if the other woman wasn’t inclined to talk.  Hana assembled a small pile of pocket detritus: a few coins, a trolley ticket, a scrap of paper with an address pencilled on it.  And as she worked she couldn’t help but admire the clothes.  Imagine having so many things that you could afford to just give them away!  Best not to dwell on that idea for long, lest she be tempted to succumb to the bitterness of envy.

Yet one overcoat in particular caught her eye.  It was dark blue and double-breasted.  Pauline would be able to tell with a sweep of her hand what type of fabric it was; all Hana knew was that it was some sort of wool, and lined with a smoother cloth.  It would fall about to Roman’s knees or maybe a little lower.  For a moment she wavered, unsure whether he’d like to look so done-up and fancy; she was certain that some of his friends would make fun of him for daring to dress so much nicer than a waiter ought to.  But he wouldn’t be a waiter forever, of that she was sure; and that conviction bolstered her.  He needed a warmer jacket, too, and if she had the opportunity to give him one she would.

At last with a sigh Grace shut the wardrobe.  She turned to Hana with a tired smile.  “Thank you, Hana, you’ve been a great help.”

“Miss Grace?”  That sounded a little too timid for what she was about to ask.  “How much for this?”  She held up the coat.

“Oh, Hana, you can take that.”

“No, please.  I would like to pay for it.  My—”  She clamped her lips shut.  It wasn’t necessary for her employer to know that Roman would balk at the gift.  Yet she didn’t want to upset Miss Grace, either, who was so very generous to her.

She studied Hana for a moment, a moment during which Hana felt her heart thrum wildly.  But Miss Grace wasn’t exactly frowning; she looked a little grieved, maybe, and the surprise had faded from her face.  If anything it looked like she understood, though that was impossible. How could Grace Beaumont Hayes understand what Hana Kollár was going through?

Her lips pursed as she turned her gaze to the coat.  A quiet hum filled the silence in the room. “Two bits,” she said at last.

The coat had to have cost at least ten dollars and that if they’d gotten it on sale; it looked almost new.  “Two dollars,” Hana countered.  A pathetic offer, yet still more than she’d planned to spend; but she had to have this coat for him.  She’d been working more this year, saving every cent she could.  That money was supposed to be for the future, for the day she finally married and was in charge of her own house and home; but what would her future be without him in it?  The look on her mother’s face if she found out Hana had paid two dollars for another present for Roman would turn her to stone.  But at least this was something practical, not silly, like a photograph.

Miss Grace startled for a moment, drawing back, her mouth forming a little O.  Then what may have been respect stole into her eyes. One corner of her mouth lifted as she shot back, “Four bits.  You don’t even know if it will fit.”

Didn’t she have her arms around him often enough to know the size of him, the shape?  Maybe Miss Grace hadn’t been as forward a sweetheart as Hana was.  “A dollar fifty.”  Confidence began to trickle in.

“Sixty cents.”

“A dollar.”  So little for this coat was more than a bargain.  

Miss Grace shook her head.  “Six bits,” she said.  “Seventy-five cents, and not a penny more.”

“Ninety cents?” Hana hazarded.  But her arms were already tightening around the coat.

“Seventy-five,” she repeated, arms akimbo.

“Eighty?”  The token offer was weak; they both knew she’d lost.

Miss Grace extended her hand.  “Seventy-five.”  Without any more hesitation Hana took it and they shook.  “Would you like me to take it out of your pay?”

“No, thank you.  I will bring it next time.  And…”  An idea was coming to her.  “Can I have a receipt?  So it looks like I got it in a shop?”

Even more understanding glimmered in her eyes.  “Ah.  I’ll have Thomas write one out.  Seventy-five cents for one secondhand wool coat.”  She gave Hana a faint smile. “I hesitate to ask, but is there anything else you want?”

She’d also spotted a pair of worn-soft flannel pajamas.  They wouldn’t fit Tumbler, but she could make him a scarf from the bottoms, and maybe some kind of sack for his things from the top.  She scooped them up and handed the pile to Miss Grace with a chagrined smile. “This is all.  I will take them next time, if that’s alright.”

“That’s fine.  May I ask—and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to—but is this for your young man?”

No matter what her employer said, there really wasn’t much space for Hana to demur.  She felt suddenly like him: wary and protective, ready to defend someone she loved.  More than anything Miss Grace’s expression was curious, though, and Hana’s hackles lowered.  Miss Grace may not understand, but she meant no ill.

“The coat, yes,” Hana said at last, managing a wan smile.  “I hope that he—that it will fit him.”   _I hope that he will like it_ , she’d started to say, changing the statement midsentence when she realized that Miss Grace might take it as a criticism of her husband’s style.  And heaven forbid she give the other woman cause to so much as think something like “Beggars can’t be choosers.”  That would make Roman furious.

“I hope so, too.  And I hope he wears it in good health,” Miss Grace said.  Her manner fit her name, and her smile was so wide and genuine that Hana felt bad for doubting her motives.  For a second it seemed like she was about to speak again, rosy lips parting; then she shook her head and shut her mouth.  “I’ll have this ready next time,” she said instead, indicating the coat and pajamas, “and your receipt.”

True to her word, when Hana handed over three quarters a few days later, Miss Grace gave her a receipt written out in a good clerk-like hand.  She’d even found a box for the coat and pajamas.  It was plain white, without the name of any shop on it, and for that Hana was thankful.  Tied with a piece of twine from the kitchen, it made her feel grown-up carrying it home; at the same time she looked forward to giving Roman his present with an anticipation that made her more impatient for Christmas than she’d been in years.

* * *

That same night she dared to press her luck further.  “Tatko, Mama, after Mass on Christmas, can Roman and Tumbler stay here overnight?”

The sound of chewing and spoons scraping against bowls reigned as her parents looked at each other.  Tatko shrugged one shoulder; when Mama had swallowed she admitted, “I suppose it makes sense.  That way you won’t be worrying about them, Hanka.  And I don’t like the idea of Andy having to pay money to sleep somewhere at Christmas.”  If the Children’s Aid Society could see the ferocity of her frown they would surely waive everyone’s rent for the night.  With that settled she went on, fussing about how many blankets they had and how they’d need to borrow cushions from the neighbors.  Tatko and Hana shared a smile, knowing that Mama would relish the chance to feed Tumbler.

She’d assumed that securing permission would be the harder part of the task.  It turned out that she was wrong.

Roman didn’t hesitate to agree when she asked, “Would you like to sleep at our place on Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah.  You serious?”  She nodded.  “Of course.”

Tumbler, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes.  “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is that ya can sleep there for free instead o’ payin’ at Duane Street.  What’s the matter with you?” Roman frowned at him.

“You should come to Mass with us first.  It will be in Slovak, but it is a very nice service.”

“I knew it,” Tumbler grumbled.

“So what?” Roman demanded.  “You can’t sit through church for a couple o’ hours?  You got someplace better to be than with me an’ Hana an’ her folks?”

Tumbler crossed his arms over his chest and glared.  “ _Her_  folks,” he said.  “They ain’t your folks an’ they ain’t mine.”

“You should be so lucky to have folks like that,” Roman snapped.  “The rest o’ this city don’t care if we live or die, but instead o’ bein’ happy that there are a couple o’ people who care, ya wanna complain about who it is?”  His head jerked from side to side before his glower landed on Tumbler again.  “You think the Kollárs got so much money that it’s no big deal for them to share their food with a couple o’ bums from off the street?  You know Hana’s ma don’t much want me around, but I’m willin’ to bet that she actually wants you there for Christmas.  So don’t act like this, spendin’ time with people who care about ya an’ do nice things for ya, is some terrible thing ya gotta suffer through.”

Tumbler’s glare lost some of its ferocity, and his arms loosened and shifted.  But he didn’t entirely relax, and Roman pressed both hands to his face with a frustrated groan.  Whatever came next would probably be easier for both of them if she weren’t there, she thought; so she touched Roman’s arm and said, “I will go.”  When he dropped his hands she pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth. Then she turned to Tumbler.

The line of his shoulders tensed, and his dark eyes only met hers for a second before dropping away.  She was silent for a few seconds, wondering what to say to him.  She could tell him that Roman was right: that Mama liked him, that she enjoyed fretting over him, that she had never said about him any of the harsh things she’d said about Roman.  She could tell him that it hurt her to hear he thought so little of them, that even now she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, was fighting to keep them from falling.  She could tell him that he was like a brother to her, that she was so happy to know him, that she loved him and wanted to help him and felt so helpless when he held her at a distance.  Finally she swallowed down the lump in her throat long enough to say, “I hope that you will come. You are always welcome with us.”  Then she walked away, head bowed and heart aching.

* * *

Rather than hosting parties or having guests, Miss Grace and Mr. Thomas would be visiting their families over the holidays.  Hana was glad she wouldn’t be expected to clean up after any soirees.  She was putting on her coat in the back hall on the 22nd when Miss Grace appeared.  With her blonde hair and her pale gown, Miss Grace looked like an angel.

“I’m happy you’re still here,” she said.  “I wanted to make sure to wish you and your family a merry Christmas.”

“Thank you.  And the same to you.”

Miss Grace handed her an envelope made of thick cream paper.  Hana had worked for rich people long enough to know that this might contain “a little something extra for the holidays,” as Mr. Howard said; she also knew better than to look at it right away.

“I’m so pleased you’re here with us,” Miss Grace, with a string of pearls around her neck and a cashmere shawl about her shoulders, said.  Mrs. Roth might thank her, but in a distracted, slightly embarrassed way; Mrs. Vande Kerk would never stoop so low, as to do so would be to admit she relied on her employees for the running of her household.  But Miss Grace meant it, so Hana let herself feel proud, let her smile show unchecked. She thanked her and tucked the envelope away safely, to look at when she got home.

“I hope the coat suits your young man,” Miss Grace added.  Hana chalked the twinkle in her eye and the laughter in her voice up to good-natured teasing about the object of one’s affection.

“I think it will look very handsome on him,” she admitted.  

Miss Grace grinned.  “Please let me know how he likes it.  Or better yet, bring him by sometime. I’d like to meet him.”  Hana nodded and they said their goodbyes.

At home she was pressed into service looking after both a neighbor’s children and their dinner already on the stove while the woman hurried to finish a pile of piecework.  It wasn’t until after her own dinner and chores that Hana remembered the envelope.  After retrieving it from her bag she sat on the edge of her bed and slid her finger beneath the flap.

The card inside was the same pale ivory, embossed with the Miss Grace and Mr. Thomas’ entwined initials.  She traced them with a fingertip.  Anything white, so easily stained, now seemed to her an extravagance at best; at worst it felt like extra work lurking in her future.  Except this.

Last year her bonus from the Vande Kerks had been fifty cents and the Roths, who had fewer staff, had given her six bits.  The Hayeses employed fewer still; Hana hadn’t been working for them very long, though. It was obvious that there were no coins in the envelope, so it seemed her bonus would be a dollar or nothing at all.  Though she would of course prefer something to nothing, she knew that they owed her nothing beyond her wages. Even with that knowledge, a tiny thrill of excitement traveled up her spine as she opened the card.

She meant to read the sentiment inside first, really she did; but it was hard to do with money in the way.  What appeared to be one dollar, the sight of which satisfied her completely, slipped against the cardstock, revealing three more bills.  All four dollars fell into her lap and she stared down at them, mouth hanging open. With a trembling hand she collected the bills and counted them, once and then once more, sliding each individual bill through her fingers.  They remained four.

She picked up the card and read.

_Dear Hana,_

_Merry Christmas!  Thomas and I would like to thank you for all of your hard work this year.  We hope you enjoy the holidays with your family._

_Best wishes,  
Grace Beaumont Hayes_

If she’d been hoping for some mention of the money, particularly of the specific amount and a reassurance that it was not a mistake, she would be disappointed.  But if she’d learned anything from Mrs. Vande Kerk it was that One Did Not Speak of Money—at least not in concrete terms. One spoke instead of quality, and occasionally quantity, and it achieved the same aims in the end.  Hana reread the note, brief though it was, before sitting back and thinking.

Miss Grace had been giving away perfectly good clothes.  She only employed a housekeeper, a maid, a cook, and a driver.  Her husband had a career, not just a job; they both came from good families.  It seemed safe to assume that they could afford such largesse. Hana supposed she could go back to the house and ask if Miss Grace had really meant to give her such a generous gift; but the only outcome she could imagine was embarrassment for at least one of them, if not both.  If Miss Grace said yes, of course that was all for Hana, then Hana would feel foolish, not to mention poor; but even if it had been an error, Miss Grace’s good manners would never allow her to revoke a gift after it was given. Asking would put them both in an awkward, uncomfortable position.

Her parents had never made any demands on her wages; she simply knew that for as long as she lived with them, they had a right to a fair portion of her earnings.  That had been fine before—before her future, once nebulous, had grown so much clearer, so much nearer.  When she started working for Miss Grace she held back much of her first pay packet, squirreling it away.  Neither Tatko nor more-outspoken Mama had mentioned the relatively small increase in what Hana put into the household, so she reckoned they didn’t mind; and one payday, when Mama walked in on her adding to her savings, she merely nodded her approval.  What she’d accrued was far from a fortune, but it was a start—a start on a new life.  Four more dollars would help the cause considerably.

Hana slid the bills back into the card and the card back into the envelope.  Then she stood—carefully, in case her legs hadn’t yet solidified—and went to the chest of drawers that held her underthings.  In the back of the bottom drawer was the box where she stored her savings; she placed the card in the box and closed the drawer firmly, thinking all along of things she could do to repay Miss Grace’s kindness.

* * *

The two of them arrived well after dinner on Christmas Eve, each carrying a small sack.  Besides that, Roman had a larger one as well; he tucked both of his away by the end of the settee.  Tumbler shot her a sheepish glance as he entered, one that she supposed was by way of an apology.  Then he accepted a leftover roll and a cup of milk from Mama, and, when it was time to set out for the church, let her look him over.

They walked briskly to church.  Though it was dark and late, the streets were far from deserted; some they passed clutched prayer books under their arms, while others carried gifts.  Great plumes of steam rose above the cart of a hot chestnut vendor.  Despite the hour it was, all in all, little different from any New York street by day—though maybe a bit kinder, a bit more full of cheer and hope and fraternal feeling than usual.

As they made their way to their pew she overheard Mrs. Kováčová say, “They’ve found another one,” and stifled a giggle.  Tumbler sat between Mama and Roman, glancing around the sanctuary in interest.  She hoped he wouldn’t get too bored, especially since he wouldn’t be able to understand.  

Roman seemed to have the same idea, because he kept one hand on Tumbler’s shoulder most of the time, leaning down now and then to whisper in his ear about what was going on.  And during the homily, when Tumbler succumbed to fatigue and slumped against his brother’s shoulder, he looked down at him with amusement and affection.  For her own part Hana couldn’t help sneaking glances at Roman throughout the service, admiring the way the candlelight gilded his smooth jaw, the way his eyes shone with golden highlights.  

Great joy: that was the angel’s promise.  And though she knew the joy to come would be greater than any on this earth, she couldn’t imagine more than she felt now—now, as Roman gently took her hand, as they sang glory to God in the highest.  

Afterward they stepped out into a frigid, moonless night.  Mama and Tatko wasted no time making for home, with Tumbler hurrying along with them; Roman drew her arm through his, shivering at the cold after the warm, close sanctuary, and they followed just out of earshot.

“No chance you can sneak out again after everybody else’s asleep, huh.”

“And do what?”  She leaned away, fixing him with an innocent look.  It was hard to sustain when she found herself imagining lying on the settee with him, secure in his arms, their legs tangled together; the way he would pull the tie from the end of her braid and comb his fingers through her hair, the way he would kiss her slow and deep until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t tear herself away.

“Nothin’ in particular.  It’s just that I can’t think of anythin’ better than sitting with you, waiting for Christmas mornin’.”

“Oh,” she breathed, surprised by the tenderness of his suggestion when her own thoughts had been so base.  The idea—of those quiet predawn moments, grey and serene, his hand secure around hers as they faced the window, waiting for a joy changeless and ever new—left her without words, but with a heart so full she felt it might burst.  She huddled closer against his side.  “ _Milujem ťa_ ,” she whispered, unsure if he’d hear but needing to say it all the same, “ _milujem ťa_ ,  _milujem ťa_.”

He kissed the top of her head and murmured it right back, though he’d already said it in different words.

Back at the apartment everyone shuffled quietly through their bedtime preparations.  Tumbler was half-asleep by the time he flopped onto the pallet Mama had assembled from cushions borrowed from neighbors; as Roman leaned down from his own bed on the settee to arrange a quilt around the drowsy boy so that his feet were covered Hana thought of his other siblings, far off in the west, and hoped they were just as warm and well looked after.  When Roman straightened she dropped a kiss on his hair, and another on his lips when he tipped his face up to her.

“ _Dobru noc_ ,” she murmured, “ _a sladky sny_.”

“See ya in the mornin’,  _miláčku_.”

Huddled half-awake under her blanket the next morning, Hana wondered if, despite what she’d said last night, she could sneak out of the room and cuddle with Roman on the settee for a few minutes.  By the time she shuffled out of bed, dressed, and tiptoed out of the bedroom, Roman was yawning on the settee.  He sat up and gave her a bleary-eyed smile as she passed; she leaned down to kiss his forehead before carrying on to the kitchen to start the coffee.  After a moment she heard shuffling footsteps, followed by the door closing quietly.  Soon enough Mama appeared and got to work making breakfast; Roman returned from the bathroom, face washed, hair combed, and wearing a fresh shirt; and Tatko stepped out of the bedroom humming, though he stopped when he saw Tumbler still sleeping.  They ate breakfast without saying much, careful not to disturb the boy. At last he did wake, stretching with a huge yawn; then, smelling food in the air, he scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the table still wearing his union suit.

“Tumbs!  Go get dressed,” Roman scolded.  Tumbler ignored him to reach for a roll; Roman swatted at his hand.

“There will be food still when you are dressed,” Mama said.  Hana recognized that tone, the one that sounded mild but left no room for argument, and eyed Tumbler with curiosity to see how he would react to it.  It seemed to work; he slowly withdrew his hand and turned from the table, snatching up his pants on his way out the door.

Besides the thick, warm, slightly lopsided scarf she’d made Tumbler also got an orange, a pair of socks, and a new dime novel.  When he’d seen her making a little drawstring bag Tatko had bought a handful of penny candy to fill it; and from the faint metallic clink that sounded when Tumbler picked it up it seemed that Mama had slipped in some pennies as well.  Roman too got an orange, and a pair of socks suitable for wearing to Tibby’s, and a thick used book titled  _War and Peace_  from Tatko.  “I could not find it in Czech,” Tatko apologized with a shrug.

“I don’t know if I could read all this in Czech anyway.”  Roman was already leafing through the book, flipping past the title page to scan the opening of the page.  He looked up again.  “Thank you.  This’ll last me a long time.”

No gift she got—not the socks and mittens from Mama and Tatko, not the length of pretty ribbon that Gussie had helped pick out from Tumbler, not even the kid gloves and box of chocolates from Roman—could compare to the one she was waiting to give.  When every other package had been handed out she rose, picked up the last box, and deposited it in Roman’s lap with little grace.  Rather than resume her seat beside him she stayed standing, watching as he pulled off the wrapping paper and wiggled the lid free from the box.

“Hanka, what…”  He looked up from the box, staring at her until she nodded to urge him on.

As he pulled the coat up she said, “I hope it fits.”  He stood, holding it before him gingerly, taking in the length of it, the heft.

“Where did ya get this?”

“It looks new.”  Mama’s eyes were sharp; still, Hana was glad to answer her comment, since it wouldn’t require a lie.

“It’s not!  It is used.”  She leapt to her feet to point out the tiny bit of wear at one cuff, the place where a label had been snipped out at the back of the collar.  “And I paid only seventy-five cents.” That was impolite, maybe, but in this case necessary.

Roman gaped.  “How’d ya manage that?”

“I bargained.”  She set her hands on her hips, raising her chin to let him see her proud smile.  As she’d hoped, his expression softened.

“Some bargain.”

“Yes,” Mama said.  It was rare enough that Mama and Roman agreed, but she wished they weren’t doing it now.  “You are sure it was only seventy-five cents?”

She was about to retort that she had a receipt saying as much when Tatko spoke up.  “Ach, Vierka, Roman,  _darovanému koňovi na zuby nepozeraj_.”

In the quiet that followed Tumbler asked, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Tatko nodded at her.  “Don’t look at the teeth of a horse that is a gift,” she said slowly.  It sounded awkward in English, short and harsh and jarring.

Tumbler grimaced, showing his own teeth.  “Why would you wanna look at a horse’s teeth?”

“To know how old it is,” Tatko said.

“You know the sayin’ ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’” Roman said.  “It just means that when someone gives ya somethin’, you shouldn’t ask too many questions.”  He looked at her over the coat and said humbly, “Thank you, Hana.”

Humility and gratitude were all well and good, but she’d been waiting weeks for this.  “Try it on!” She threw her arms out toward him. “I must know how it will fit.”

It fit about as well as she’d expected.  Though he stood stiff, arms angled away from his body, she thought he looked wonderful.  She clasped her hands together under her chin and gazed at him, not caring how foolish her expression must be.  When he glanced up at her he smiled, bashful, but the tension in his spine relaxed.

“It looks very nice,” Tatko said, and Mama added a nod.  On the other hand, Tumbler’s assessment of “Ya look fancy, Skitts,” didn’t sound like much of a compliment.

She stepped closer.  “It fits okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And you are warm?”

His lips quirked up.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been warmer.   _Miláčku_ , I don’t know how you did this—”  He straightened his arms again, looking down his front and then back to her.  “—but thank you.”

She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to have him enfold her in the coat with him.  They would have time for that later, time she was looking forward to. Until then they exchanged smiles.  

While the men tidied away the presents and their wrappings the women finished getting lunch ready.  The  _kapustnica_  had been simmering since the day before; Hana sliced rye bread to sop it up as Mama took the ham from the oven.  There was potato salad, too, and cucumbers in vinegar and sugar, and strudel and  _medovníky_  afterward.  Then Hana and Mama cleaned up while Roman started reading his new book and Tumbler taught Tatko a card game.

But of course the peaceful domestic scene couldn’t last.  Before long Tumbler had tired of the game and sat fidgeting by the settee.  He grimaced up at Hana when she approached, but said nothing to suggest that he was bored to death and would rather be anywhere else.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested.  

Tumbler shot to his feet.  “If we leave now, I can make it back to Duane Street in time for dinner!”

“You are still hungry?” Mama demanded.

“Nah, but I bet I will be by the time we get there.”  His grin was so impish that Mama couldn’t help but chuckle.

With some reluctance Roman closed his book and put it aside.  As the others put on their boots and Hana wound her braid into a bun Tumbler danced with impatience, whirling the ends of his scarf.  Eyes on his brother, Roman picked up his jacket.

“Put on your new coat!” Mama chided.

He jumped, startled, then looked down at the old one in his hands.  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I forgot. I’m just used to havin’ this one, ya know?”  But he tossed it aside and took up the new coat, slipping one arm and then the other through its sleeves.  As he stuck his hands in the pockets a frown wrinkled his face and he glanced first at her and then at her parents; then he turned to Tumbler, already at the door.

“We will be back,” Hana told her parents.  

“You an’ me will,” Roman added, “but I don’t know about him.”

The sack that Tumbler had brought was now stuffed with his gifts; Mama handed him a packet of cookies that he added to his bounty.  She ran a hand briefly over his still-uncapped head. He endured it, not ducking away. Maybe, Hana supposed, he thought it was the price he had to pay for the free room and board, for warmth and a few presents; or maybe he didn’t mind a few moments of maternal affection.  Likely it was somewhere between the two. He thanked Mama and Tatko and wished them merry Christmas before forging out in the hallway.

As Roman pulled the door shut behind them another burst open down the hall.  A blonde head leaned out of the doorway. “Merry Christmas!” it called, and then Pauline was flying down the hall to embrace Hana.  She squeezed her friend tight, hugged Tumbler, and stopped short of embracing Roman to say, “What a magnificent coat!” in genuine admiration.

“Thanks.”  He smiled down at Hana.

Calvin, who’d joined them, asked, “Are you headed to Duane Street?”

“Yeah, an’ we’re goin’ to be late!”

He ignored Tumbler’s complaint.  “Mind if we come along?”

Pauline reached up to cup his cheek.  “The poor dear has been valiantly entertaining my parents all day.  He could use a break.” She stroked her thumb up his cheekbone, gazing at him in unconcealed adoration.  He returned the gaze with no less love in his eyes.

“That’s disgustin’,” Roman said, expression echoing his words.  Pauline rolled her eyes, though she knew well how hypocritical his statement was, when he was just as affectionate with his own sweetheart.

“Hurry up if you’re comin’,” Tumbler commanded.  “I’m not waitin’ much longer.”

In a few more minutes they were bundled up and heading down the sidewalk, exchanging accounts of their days so far.  Pauline asked Tumbler to tell her about the coming feast at the lodginghouse; he did, with Calvin putting in a few details here and there.  Hana expected Roman to join in their reminiscences but he hung back, tugging at her arm to keep her by his side. He looked wary now, though for what reason she couldn’t imagine.

“Hanka,” he said, voice low, “when I put my hand in this pocket earlier I felt somethin’.”  He withdrew his right hand from said pocket and revealed a bit of crumpled paper. Not paper, she realized after peering at it, but money: a dollar bill.

“I didn’t put it there,” she blurted.  A smile cracked his serious expression for a moment.

“I didn’t think ya did.  But I was wonderin’ if maybe somebody left it there at the place ya got the coat from.  Maybe we should, I don’t know, try to take it back.” There was no enthusiasm behind the suggestion.  If she weren’t thinking so hard about where the money might have come from, she might have better appreciated the nobility of his offer.

She hadn’t done anything to the coat once she brought it home, hadn’t removed it from the box even to hang it up for fear of him discovering it.  But she had checked the pockets at Miss Grace’s house.  They’d been empty there, she was sure of it. Then she’d left it there—

With Miss Grace.  Who’d already given her four dollars, and who knew the coat was for her sweetheart.  Miss Grace, whose eyes had been merry as she’d made a point to tell Hana she hoped Roman would like the coat.

“I think they should have checked before they sold it,” she said firmly.  “ _Veselé Vianoce, moja láska_.”

A line had already formed outside the lodginghouse by the time they arrived.  Tumbler slipped into it easily, nearly disappearing among his fellow newsboys.  Calvin took one look at the little knots of boys that made up the line and then subtly steered Pauline away from where Blink lurked, even though Mush was nearby to help keep the peace; Hana saw him introducing her to a pair of young men in glasses.  She turned her attention to Roman as he introduced her to friends who he called Swifty and Pie Eater. As they chatted, she noticed Roman’s glances up and down the line, from Calvin to Tumbler to the door and back, all with a wistful expression.

“You should stay,” she said quietly.  This might be the last time he could share this meal with Tumbler and the rest of them.

He bit his lip, surveying the line.  “I don’t know if I can.”

“Sure ya can!” Pie Eater put in.  “Who d’ya think is gonna stop ya?  Kloppman?”  He scoffed.

“An’ then after ya just put on your fancy coat—”  Swifty mimed pulling sleeves up his arms, then doing up the buttons down the front.  “—say you’re goin’ out for a smoke, an’ take off.  Just like old times.”  Given the lecherous twinkle in his eyes, Hana thought she’d rather not know what had inspired those old disappearances.

She disentangled her arm from Roman’s and gave him a gentle push.  “Go.”

“You sure?”  His mouth was lined with worry as he looked down at her, but his eyes were bright, darting to his friends.

“Would I have said it if I wasn’t sure?”

He squeezed her hand.  “ _Jsi nejlepší.  Děkuji, miláčku_.”

“Will you—”  She was aware of Swifty and Pie Eater listening, and pressed her lips together with a little shake of her head.  It wouldn’t do to embarrass him in front of them, so she let the question lie.

He answered it anyway.  “I’ll be back in a couple o’ hours.”  With a grin and after one last squeeze he left her side to squirm into line between his friends, who jostled and prodded him in the process.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched Calvin sidle into the line with much less fuss.  Pauline joined her and they linked arms. “To think all this time there was a house full of handsome young men and we didn’t know about it.”  She shook her head in mourning for the lost opportunity.

“Now we are stuck with ours.”  Hana sighed gustily, even as she watched Roman cavort with the others.

When the doors opened at five a great cheer rose up from the line before it started to flow into the lodginghouse.  Once everyone they knew was inside the young ladies turned toward home.

“Roman and Andy spent the night, didn’t they?”  Hana nodded. “I wish I’d thought of that,” Pauline said with a trace of envy.  “But my parents would have made me sleep on the settee and given Calvin the bed.”

“You are lucky they like him so much.”

“They just want to get rid of me,” she joked.  “And if he’s willing to take me away, they seem willing to let him.”  She shrugged as if this aspect of her future concerned her not one bit.

Hana’s eyebrows lifted as she made a speculative noise.  “ _Is_  he willing to take you away?”

Her friend went pink, biting her bottom lip.  Her eyes lowered demurely. “I think so,” she murmured, then hurried to add, “Though not too soon!  We’ve talked about it, but he hasn’t asked yet.”

“Are you sure?  You looked awfully lovey-dovey earlier.”

“And why wouldn’t I, when he showed up this morning with roses, even though we said we weren’t going to exchange gifts?  ‘Flowers are a decoration, not a gift,’ he said, and he looked so sweet and…oh, wonderful,” she sighed, “standing there, that I had to give him a kiss.”  If her arm hadn’t been threaded through Hana’s, she might very well have floated away.

“That is all he gave you?  Some roses?  Nothing small and shiny?”

“Nothing of the sort.”  Pauline pulled off her glove and wiggled the bare fingers of her left hand.  “See?  And you know he wouldn’t propose without a ring.”

Calvin wouldn’t, that was true.  He’d do everything the right way, at the right time.  “But when he does…”

She glanced up, cheeks a deeper pink now and eyes sparkling.  “I’m willing to be taken away, as long as it’s him.”

Everything would be different when they were married, even when they were engaged.  As much as Hana looked forward to being someone’s wife, she knew it would mean sacrifice: leaving her home, her parents, the life she was used to for something unknown.  She gathered Pauline into her arms and held her tight. “Don’t let him take you too far away,” she whispered.

“Of course not.”  She wriggled until her arms were around Hana’s waist.  “And wherever I go you’ll always be welcome.”

* * *

It was almost too late when he tapped at the door before opening it and peeking in.  Tatko looked up from where he’d been dozing; Mama shook her head over her sewing. But both of them stood and made their way into the bedroom.

“Sorry,” Roman said, taking off his coat.  He crossed to the settee and bent to kiss her.  He smelled like snow and cigarettes, and once he was settled next to her she leaned into his side.  His shirt was cool against her cheek; she tucked her knees up on the empty cushion as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  He seemed thoughtful now—not withdrawn or distracted or sad, only more pensive than she’d expected after seeing the way he grinned with Pie Eater and Swifty.  Whatever was on his mind, he’d tell her when the time was right. And if he wanted to sit in silence, to breathe in unison, she would be content with that, too.  She lifted a hand and placed it over his heart, felt his head drop onto her crown.

A few moments passed before either moved.  Then he reached up, lifted the hand she’d rested on his chest to his lips and kissed the palm before replacing it, still covered with his own.  “You know I want to marry you, right,  _miláčku_?” he murmured, and she nodded.  As he went on she leaned back a little to study his face.  He met her eyes steadily. “I want to spend as much time as we got together, takin’ care o’ you the way ya deserve to be taken care of.  I know I got no right to ask this, but…”

When he sighed she felt the breath go out of him under her arm, felt it fan across her cheek.  He looked across the room now, toward the door and further still away. “I found Miloš and Máša and Joe, but I still gotta figure out how to adopt Tumbs, and I gotta get a better job…”  In this pause he dropped her hand to scrub his own across his face. Then he looked down at her, his mouth set and his forehead creased. “Can ya wait a little longer, Hana? I mean, will ya, please?  For me?”

She smoothed the furrow between his eyebrows with her thumb.  “I can. I will. I love you, and I do not want to live without you.  But,  _moje srdce_ , please don’t take too long.”  Her voice wobbled and she saw his face fall.

“I don’t deserve you—”

She shook her head, cutting him off.  “You deserve to be happy. You are a good man, Roman.  I love you the most, but Mama also loves you—” He snorted.  “—and Tatko, and all of your brothers and sisters, and Pauline and Calvin, and Jack.  You are not alone.”

She leaned forward to rest her forehead against his.  He exhaled a sigh, his eyelids fluttering closed; she studied the dark stubble along his jaw, the cold-chapped lips, the faint lines that would one day be wrinkles, and knew that he meant more to her than any bonus ever would.  

Her own eyes closed.  “I want you,” she murmured, “for forever.”

“You got me.”

They rested there together, breathing in tandem, hands joined, sharing a peace she wished could last beyond this moment, this day.  Eventually the bedroom door creaked open and Tatko stepped out. “Hanka,” he said, voice quiet, “it is time for bed.”

“Alright.”  After one more breath she broke the contact between them, then stood, Roman following.

Tatko took her gently by the arm, guiding her toward the bedroom.  “Roman,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

Tatko pointed to his chair, over the back of which a quilt was draped.  “There is your blanket. Sleep well.”

The last thing she saw before the door shut was Roman’s face breaking out into a grin.  Then she turned and put her arms around her father, hugging him tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A na zemi pokoj = And on earth peace  
> Milujem ťa = I love you  
> Dobru noc…a sladky sny = Good night…and sweet dreams  
> miláčku = sweetheart  
> darovanému koňovi na zuby nepozeraj = don’t look a gift horse in the mouth  
> kapustnica = sauerkraut soup  
> medovníky = honey cookies  
> Veselé Vianoce, moja láska = Merry Christmas, my love  
> Jsi nejlepší. Děkuji, miláčku = You’re the best. Thanks, sweetheart.  
> moje srdce = my heart
> 
>  
> 
> Look, these prices make me feel like I’m having a stroke every time I look at them, but overcoats were apparently spendy as hell. In an ad from the New York Evening World, 2 January 1903, the lowest price of $4.35 (in 1903 dollars) would be the equivalent of $120.44 in 2017. The $20 coat would be $553.74, how did anyone live like that.
> 
> If Thomas did get his coat on sale for $10 in 1904, he’d still be spending the equivalent of $276.87. I guess all I really have to say about that is THE RICH ARE DIFFERENT.
> 
> Hana’s bonus would be about $110. Miss Grace is like, really nice (and maybe also feels sorry for her).
> 
> JACK: READ THIS!!!!!!!!!!!


	134. David's Birthday (28 December 1905)

Judith’s neck twinged as she straightened up.  In fact, most every joint protested in some way.  She knew she’d been hunched over her sketchbook for some time, but it wasn’t until the gallery started to get quiet again that she realized just how long she’d been working.  With lips pursed she glanced down at the sketch, then up at her model; the resemblance was good enough.  Who knew the curves of handles would be so difficult to draw, to say nothing of producing an identical pair of them?  At least she hadn’t had to sculpt them herself.  Sketching them—over and over—was bad enough.

Deciding on David’s present hadn’t been one  _yes_  as much as a succession of  _no_ s.  No, a book wouldn’t do; she wasn’t certain what he’d like and what he already had.  No, she wouldn’t get him any stationery, no pens or papers, as it was possible that writers were nearly as picky about their tools as artists were.  No, she wouldn’t simply take him out somewhere, or at least nowhere they’d been before; and no, she absolutely wouldn’t buy him any of the accessories Pauline, and by extension Calvin, had suggested.  She could offer to take a portrait of him, but doubted he’d be interested (though his mother would likely love a formal picture of her elder son).  Besides, taking a photograph of him might seem too easy, as if she weren’t putting enough effort into the gift.  Now, painting one would be another story.  Not a portrait of him: he’d be embarrassed by that, surely, and she couldn’t fathom it turning out looking anything like him.  But a painting of something…maybe the view from the roof at sunset, or the thing he loved most in the world, a steaming cup of coffee.  Or maybe something he hadn’t seen yet, but would capture his imagination all the same.

(Her own imagination had been preoccupied with him.  In recent days she’d found herself staring at his hands, wondering how his fingers would feel between hers, how warm his palm would be against her own.  As if none of that was dangerous enough the idea of him using those work-roughened, ink-smudged hands—not a laborer’s, but no dilettante’s, either—to touch her other places had even crossed her mind.  The memory of his hand holding her elbow or resting on her shoulder had her imagining a caress of her cheek, a whisper of touch at the inside of her wrist.  She could almost feel his fingertips against that delicate skin, tracing over her tripping pulse, in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.

The other day he’d dropped in to tell her he didn’t have time to get coffee.  By the time he’d left some twenty minutes later she’d doodled several familiar hands in the margin of the newspaper he’d brought.)

It was lucky she’d left herself plenty of time to work on his present.  First she had to perfect the sketch, a daunting task in and of itself.  As if the amphora didn’t have to be perfectly symmetrical in shape, handles and all, she had to fit in all of the figures that ran around its middle, too.  In the museum she’d begun sketching more than one vase before she realized what exactly the the people on it were doing.  Finding a model whose decoration depicted neither warfare nor intimacy was harder than she’d expected, though after several false starts—and too interested observation from fellow museum-goers—she’d found one as inoffensive as it was stately.  After filling page upon page with lopsided curves and wavering lines she ended up with an outline that she could paint.  Before she shut her sketchbook she made careful note of colors to use, and copied the information from the label below the amphora.

It was something of a surprise a few days later when she sat back to appraise the final product and found that she was generally satisfied with it.  As in life the amphora on the page featured a band of dark terracotta around its middle, with black above and below; the figures on the central section were painstakingly rendered in black.  A wash of blue surrounded the vase, darker at the middle and dissipating as it spread, to set it apart from the off-white of the paper.  Once the painting was dry she took it to Mr. Rosetti, who framed the photographs that they displayed in the studio.  He balked at the simple black frame she chose, and begged her to let him add a mat, but she was firm.  A modest painting that would be hung in a modest home called for a modest frame.  Mr. Rosetti acquiesced, though not without much headshaking; when she picked up the finished product from the workshop she was able to tell him quite sincerely how pleased she was with the result, and that mollified him.

If only, she thought on the way back to the studio, she was the one whose opinion on the gift truly mattered.

* * *

David’s birthday fell on a Thursday, which meant he could go out that evening to celebrate.  “We’ll end up at Irving Hall,” he predicted.  “I don’t know how Jack survives livin’ so far from a vaudeville theater.”

“It’s your birthday.  Shouldn’t you get to choose what you do?”

He shrugged.  “I mean, yeah, it’s my birthday, but they only get to visit so often, ya know?  I don’t like going to the Irving quite as much as Jack does, but I don’t mind goin’ there, either.”  She supposed that learning to compromise like that was an advantage of growing up with siblings.  He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes for a second before he looked away.  “You’re comin’ too, right?” he asked.

Judith sat back, a wry half-smile playing on her lips.  “With an invitation like that, how could I refuse?”

That made him look up again, this time with one of his most charming smiles.  With a bow at the waist he intoned, “Dearest Miss Cook, would you do me the great honor of attending my birthday festivities?”

_Dearest_ …  Her heart swelled uncomfortably, and she pressed her fingers against the warm ceramic of her mug to keep from sighing.  “One of these days I’ll say no to you,” she threatened instead; it was only after speaking that she remembered she already had said no to him, and their ensuing spat.

“But not on my birthday.  You know you’re invited, Dita, just like you know you’re always welcome for dinner.”  Like a sister, she thought a touch sourly, or a cousin.  “Besides, Sarah’s been wantin’ to talk with you.”

That was a surprise.  Equal parts flattered and wary she asked, “What about?”

“I should know?  That’s just what their last letter said: ‘I’ve been looking forward to chatting with Judith again.’”

They talked about her in their letters—or at least Sarah mentioned her.  That was friendly of her.  For all that she tried to remind herself that they were only friends, that she had no reason to hope for more, it never really worked.

He was watching her expectantly.  It wouldn’t do to give in so quickly—and it was so much more fun to watch him fidget with impatience.  She sipped her coffee to buy some time and then asked, “Will Les be there?”

It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, a fact that pleased her.  His eyes narrowed, though a smile lingered on his lips.  “Sometimes I think you like him better than me,” he said.

“Sometimes I think you just want me to say that I like you best.”  Her tone was level, despite the uptick in her heartbeat.

His grin warmed.  “You’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“Not at all, Mr. Jacobs.”  Especially not the one thing she wanted most to know.

* * *

On Thursday evening the door opened to admit all three Jacobs siblings and Jack.  Mr. Till, who’d been lounging at the desk as he kept Judith company while she waited, scrambled to his feet as she went into the workroom to fetch the painting.  From there she heard David and Les say, “Hi, Mr. Till,” in a ragged duet.

“This is our sister Sarah,” David went on, “and our brother-in-law Jack Kelly.”

She emerged in time to see Mr. Till greet Sarah with a delicate press of her hand and Jack with a sturdy clasp.  “Garrett Till,” he said.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Even those who didn’t find Jack attractive couldn’t deny that he had a way of commanding the eye.  She could tell by the way Mr. Till stroked his mustache that he noticed it, too.  Could he see the outdoorsman in Jack, the ranch hand, the farmer?  Or would he pose him as a man-about-town, cool in a suit, aloof, haughty?

Judith greeted Sarah with a one-armed hug, cradling the package in her free arm, and shook Jack’s hand.  “Nice to see ya again,” he said.

“And you.”  She glanced between the two.  “How’s Danny?”

“He’s fine.”  Sarah beamed.  “He’s always on the go, toddling around and trying to get into everything…  Nothing at all like his father.”  She smiled up at him.  She did look a little tired, and no wonder, if she spent her days trying to corral a miniature Jack Kelly while also keeping house and growing an entirely new person; but despite the faint circles under her eyes her face was aglow.

“And Nell?”

Jack chuckled.  “Gettin’ fat an’ lazy for the winter.  I’ll tell her ya asked about her.”

“Please do.”  Only after she’d greeted Les with a wink did she turn to David, offering the present without a word.

“What’s this?”  He took it anyway.

Nerves pushed a sarcastic reply to the tip of her tongue; she bit it back.  “Happy birthday, David,” she said instead, and was astonished at how gentle her voice sounded.  Looking at her his eyes softened, just for a moment, before he returned his attention to the gift in his hand.  He unwrapped it, absently handing the wrapping paper to Les, and stared down at the painting for a long moment.

“It’s beautiful, Dita,” he said at last.  His raised his eyes to hers for a moment—one of those glances that Blink had warned her was so affecting—then dropped them again to study the painting.  “I wasn’t expectin’ something this nice.  I mean—not that I didn’t think you’d give me somethin’ nice, if you were gonna give me anything; just…this is wonderful.”  Though his face was tipped down she could still see the flush rising in his cheeks.

His fingers caught on the label she’d pasted on the back and he turned the frame over.  Judith twisted her fingers together as he read the information she’d copied from the museum, the date she’d finally finished the painting, and the inscription:  _To David on his birthday, 1905.  From Dita_.

From Dita, with fondest wishes, she’d meant with every stroke of the paintbrush; from Dita, with greatest affection.

“It’s real?” he asked, looking up.

She nodded.  “I—I can show it to you sometime, if you like.”  The next time she saw Mush she’d have to thank him for the idea.

“I’d like that a lot,” he said.  “Thank you for this.”  Their gazes locked, and she felt sure everyone could see her face fill with color.  Even knowing Mr. Till was there watching couldn’t tear her attention away from David.  She started to smile shyly, bit her lip, released it when the corners of her mouth insisted on rising.  With every heartbeat she felt the tension between them build, tried to tell herself that it was all in her head, that he didn’t feel it, too.

“Do we get to see it or what?” Les demanded.

David scowled at his brother but obliged, turning the painting so the rest of them could see it.  They responded with gasps and praise.

“That’s swell, Judith,” Les said.

“So that’s what you’ve been working on,” Mr. Till said.  “It turned out well.”

“That’s Greek, huh?” Jack asked.  When she nodded he went on, “You ever read the  _Ilia_ —”

“Don’t start,” David warned.  

The sternness of his tone was lost on grinning Jack.  “Ask Davey about it sometime,” he laughed.  “It’s his favorite dime-novel story.”

Even without seeing David’s eyes roll she would have known better.  He turned back to her.  “Is it okay if I leave this here for tonight?  I’ll pick it up tomorrow.  I’d hate for somethin’ to happen to it while we’re out tonight.”  He admired the painting once more.

“I’ll put it in the workroom,” Mr. Till volunteered.  David handed it over with his thanks; then they wished Mr. Till goodnight and filed out into the evening.

“Where are we off to?” she asked, tone casual.  “Carnegie Hall?  The Hippodrome?”  David shot her a look that had her snickering.  
  
“Irvin’ Hall,” Les, ignorant of their previous conversation, said.  “We can stay as long as we want there without gettin’ kicked out.”  
  
“A necessary requirement for any party venue,” she said.  She’d only meant David to hear, but Sarah’s laughter said she’d heard, too.  
  
It wasn’t an arduous journey from the studio to the theater, particularly not in good company.  Judith was ready to pay everyone’s admission as part of her present to David, but that proved unnecessary; Jack slid a few coins to the gentleman in the box office, who tipped him a wink and handed back a sheaf of tickets.  
  
This early in the evening, not so long after dinner, the theater was sparsely populated.  Finding a suitable table was no problem.  Once the ladies were safely seated Jack dragged David away, with Les trailing behind them.  

“It’s too bad you couldn’t come for dinner,” Sarah told her.  “You’re always welcome to drop by.”

“So I hear.  But I…  Surely it would have been too crowded with me there, too.”

She laughed.  “What’s another body on the Lower East Side?  We would’ve made room.  And we like to think of it as cozy, not crowded.”  Her expression was anything but scolding, but Judith still felt chastened.  “If ya ever feel like you’re pushing in where you shouldn’t be, just remember that Jack came to dinner the first night he met Dave and Les, and that was after he made them run from the police.  And Davey still invited him to stay over that night.”

She sighed, half in fondness and half despair.  David, the crusader, the knight in shining armor, had done his best to rescue Jack; it was likely she was just another hapless soul he’d taken pity on.  “Is there anyone your brother hasn’t tried to save?” she wondered, injecting enough humor in her tone to mask the melancholy.

“Sure.  And most of the time he just writes about people.  He rarely invites them home.”  Her head dipped and she looked at Judith slant-wise, as if urging her to make some connection.  Then the seriousness fled from her face and she smiled.  “I can’t complain, since it’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”  She glanced over Judith’s shoulder before fixing her eyes on her once again.  “Give it time.”

“Give what time?  There’s nothing—”

Four glasses clattered onto the tabletop and she smothered her annoyance.  “First round is on Toby,” Jack announced.  “He wouldn’t let us leave the bar until the birthday boy’d had a shot o’ whiskey.”  David’s cheeks were faintly flushed, she saw, and wondered if it had been one shot or more.

As Sarah peered into her glass David said, “It’s just sarsaparilla.  Toby offered to open a bottle of champagne, but I told him to save it for New Year’s.”

That was a bit of a shame; she would have liked some free champagne.  Of course Mother already had a bottle at home for the coming holiday, but this felt like more of a celebration.

Though David and Jack had come back their party remained one short.  “Where’s Les?” Judith asked.

Jack jerked his head toward the back of the room.  “Still talkin’ to Toby.”

“Still gettin’ free candy out o’ Toby,” David corrected.

“We’ll make a toast anyway,” Sarah said, lifting her glass, “and he can buy the next round if he wants.  To Davey.”

As the four touched glasses Jack’s cheer of “To Dave!” nearly drowned out Judith’s quieter “Davey.”

As the evening progressed well-wishers came and went, leaning over the table to clap David on the back and chat with Jack and Sarah.  Judith recognized several of them, even if she couldn’t remember their names, like the two young men in glasses who’d made her laugh so much as she set up their trick photograph.  Others she didn’t know, though, and she did her best to ignore their curious glances in her direction, even when she thought she overheard one of them saying something that sounded like “Dave’s girl.”

Roman led Hana over; Tumbler paused long enough to holler “Happy birthday, Dave!” and collect Les before moving on.  While Roman pulled up chairs Hana greeted everyone, then said something to David in another language.  He listened carefully, leaning toward her, forehead wrinkled in concentration.  Then he smiled and said, “All the best?”

Her dark hair shone as she nodded.  “All the best on your birthday.”

Roman took the seat next to Jack, who immediately leaned over and asked a question in a low voice.  Though Roman’s attention was on his friend, and Hana was chatting with David, their hands were clasped between them.  At one point Roman said something to Jack and glanced back at her, and his expression was so sweet, so adoring, so utterly transformed from what it was when he was pouring coffee for them on weekday midmornings that she nearly couldn’t believe they belonged to the same person.

“Your dress is so beautiful, Judith,” Hana said.  Her smile looked a bit worried, as if she wasn’t sure how Judith would take the compliment.  “You look lovely.”

Though part of her had protested that it wasn’t done to wear a dress in the same company as she’d worn it previously, she’d chosen the green.  It was silly, she reasoned, to have a new dress that suited her so well and not wear it out.  The fact that David hadn’t seen it last time surely played no part in her decision.  Mother had lent her a wrap to help her keep warm; it was the color of milky coffee, with strands of gold woven through it that caught the light when she moved.  The interior of the theater was warm enough that she didn’t need the wrap for long.

Now, though she was sure her face was permanently flushed with the warmth of the room and his nearness, the compliment—so sincere that she didn’t have space to doubt it—still flustered her.

Before she could respond Sarah did.  “Doesn’t she?” she asked, looking pleased.  It wasn’t a pointed question, a demand for the men to chime in and agree, and none of them did—though when she raised her eyes to murmur her thanks she saw Roman give a little nod and Jack send her a wink.  Her chuckle quieted as she realized what good people surrounded her.  And not just good people, but good friends—to each other, but also to her.  She’d spent much of her life with older people, her family members and Mr. Till, but here were her peers seeming happy to have her among them.

She didn’t look for David’s reaction.  Not with so many eyes on her; not with so much riding on it.

Across the table Hana asked after Danny; Jack asked after Shiv, and upon hearing that she likely would not be making an appearance told them to send his regards.  “She will be happy to hear from you,” Hana said.

“If she can quit payin’ attention to Snoddy long enough to hear about it,” Roman grumbled.

“Who’d’ve thought Snoddy could manage to get a girl like Shiv?”

“What do you mean?” Judith asked.  “They strike me as very well suited to each other.”

“A darin’ heroine like that needs somebody who’ll go on adventures with her, ya know?  She could be out there preventin’ foul deeds an’ protectin’ those in danger with her trusty hatpin, but instead she’s workin’ in a shop an’ walkin’ out with a guy named Calvin.”

“That’s just what we need,” Roman groaned, “Shiv gettin’ the idea that she oughta be some kind o’…vigilante.”

“Life isn’t like a dime novel,” Sarah said.  “And Snoddy is—”

“Snoddy’s what?” Jack asked, not entirely teasing.  Sarah just rolled her eyes.

Before anyone else could weigh in on Pauline’s choices in career and romance Hana spoke up.  “I think,” she said quietly, “that Pauline would say that being loved is the best adventure.”  It did sound like something she might say, Judith thought, trying to ignore the young man next to her.  When Hana saw the stares directed at her she blushed and dropped her gaze; Roman put his arm around her shoulders, murmured something in her ear, and pressed a kiss to her temple.  That signaled the end of that discussion, and conversation turned to less contentious matters.

Not ten minutes went by before Kid Blink approached the table, his arm around a young woman.  “Fellas,” he said, the appellation apparently meant to encompass all present, “this is May.  She’s studyin’ to be a nurse.  May, this is… Well, that’s Davey, whose birthday it is.”  He pointed to David with his free hand.  “That’s really all ya need to know.”

“Gee, thanks, Kid,” Jack drawled.

Given Blink’s reputation, Judith would have expected to see him with someone more obviously pretty.  It wasn’t that May wasn’t attractive; her smile was sweet, if perhaps a little wary about meeting an entire table full of people at once, and there was a clear spark of intelligence about her that wasn’t just attributable to her glasses.  But there was nothing flashy about her, nothing ostentatious.  She looked solid and real and altogether too sensible to be spending time with Blink.

For example, the elbow she nudged into his side at his refusal to make complete introductions.  Sarah named everyone for her instead; May thanked her and said, “It’s nice to meet you all,” with a faint accent that sounded almost French.

“How’s your little sister, Kid?”  Judith reconsidered her immediate reaction, that she didn’t know that Blink had a sister, when she saw the smirk on Roman’s face.  The way Blink glared daggers at him for a long second reinforced that belief.

“Gus is fine,” Blink said.  Gussie was Blink’s sister?—or sham sister, so it seemed.  At least from a purely aesthetic standpoint it made sense.  “But she was kind o’ sore that she couldn’t come wish her favorite fella a happy birthday.”  He turned his grin to David, who shook his head, an embarrassed smile on his face.

“I felt awful that you had to tell her no, Lou,” May said.  Swift and furtive glances were exchanged around the table at the diminutive.

“I know, but it’s too late for her to be out, an’ in the cold.”  His delivery carried a convincing amount of concern for the young girl, more than enough for May to nod her agreement.

David’s eyes were bright with mischief.  “May, how about you pull up a chair and tell us how you two met?”

Blink didn’t miss a beat.  “Sorry, Dave, but we just stopped by to say happy birthday.  See ya around.”

“It was nice to meet you all,” May said, even as she was being tugged away, “and happy birthday!”

They managed to hold in their laughter until the couple was safely away.  “What was that about?” Judith asked, and listened intently as Roman recounted the story, told to him by Tumbler, who’d heard it from Gussie herself.  At its conclusion she said, “There’s your dime novel, Jack.”

“There’s a disaster waitin’ to happen,” Roman said with relish.

“It’s risky,” David agreed.  “Relying on Gussie like that an’ then bringin’ May here, with so many people who could spill the beans without even meanin’ to…that takes chutzpah.”

“Chutzpah Blink’s got,” Jack said, “plenty of it.  Brains, though, I don’t know about.  Let me know what happens, huh?”  He glanced from David to Roman; both nodded.

Roman and Hana didn’t stay long after that; they had to see Tumbler got back safe to the lodginghouse before curfew, they said, and Hana too had to be delivered home safely.  Jack winked broadly at Roman while Hana’s attention was elsewhere, to which Roman responded by slugging Jack’s arm.  When Roman returned from rounding up his young charge Les was with them as well, and said he’d see them at home.

“You’re goin’ already?”  Jack seemed genuinely dismayed by this.

Les just nodded.  “I see Davey every day,” he explained, which earned a chuckle from his brother-in-law and a dark mutter from his blood brother, “an’ if I don’t stay out too long tonight, I got a better chance of bein’ able to stay out late on New Year’s Eve.”  He grinned, irrepressible and mischievous, and accepted the laughter his logic inspired.

“You’re not goin’ to miss anythin’ exciting this year,” David said.  Then he leaned toward Judith and confided, “Jack proposed to Sarah on New Year’s Eve a couple o’ years ago, with Les as his accomplice.  I think he expects somethin’ big to happen every New Year’s now.”

“Ya never know what might happen,” Les said sagely.  “That’s why ya have to be prepared.  An’ that’s why I’m preparin’ now by goin’ home an’ gettin’ some sleep while my bed’s empty.”  

It wasn’t long before the gap their departure left was filled.  Another young couple approached, she pale and dark-haired, he with a distinctive gait.  The young man graced them all with an impressively wide grin.  “Hey, fellas and ladies!  Davey, happy birthday!”

“ _Chag sameach_ ,” the young woman said, smiling around the table.  Her dark eyes were merry, and it seemed that she’d just been laughing, or was just about to.  The greeting put Judith at ease.

Jack surged up, crying, “Crutchy!” and throwing his arms around the young man, who did, in fact, use a crutch.  Some months ago the moniker would have left her aghast; now she supposed she was inured to such casual insensitivity among friends.  David, too, rose, but he merely leaned across the table to shake hands with Crutchy.

With an arm around his friend’s shoulders Jack started the introductions.  “So Judith, this is our old pal Crutchy—he works at the lodgin’house now, even after all the trouble he caused while he was livin’ there—”

As David snorted, Crutchy assumed an innocent expression, with eyes wide and mouth an O.  He splayed a hand against his chest.  “Me cause trouble?  That doesn’t sound like a thing I would do.  Now somebody here might’ve turned all o’ the furniture in the dorm upside down one afternoon, but it wasn’t me.”

Jack and David exchanged a quick grin that both swiftly smothered.  “Somebody might’ve sewn all o’ Blink’s socks shut so he couldn’t put them on,” Jack accused.

“Well, somebody—” Crutchy began before a cough from his side cut him off.

“—An’ this is Crutchy’s fiancée, Myra,” Jack finished.  “Crutchy, Myra, this is Judith Cook.”

“The photographer.”  Crutchy nodded, his curls bouncing, as Jack settled back into his seat and Crutchy pulled out a chair for Myra.  “It’s nice to meet ya.  I’ve seen a lot o’ your work; the fellas like showin’ off their pictures.” Gossip and pride, she thought, the deadliest sins of the newsboy.  He nodded at Myra.  “We’ll be needin’ a wedding portrait pretty soon.”

“ _Mazel tov_.  And I’d be honored to photograph you.  I haven’t got a card on me, but you know where to find us.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” David said.  “She’s the best.”

She probably wasn’t even the best photographer he knew—both Papa and Mr. Till were more experienced—and far from the best in the city.  So while she didn’t roll her eyes, and while she fought the urge to melt at his praise, she couldn’t just let the untruth stand.  With a saccharine simper at him and a tone just as sweet she said, “Only compared to you.”  The rest of the table burst into laughter as he narrowed his eyes in mock anger; her eyes darted down to follow the twist of his lips as he tried to contain his smile.  Then he let himself laugh, too, and his knee bumped hers beneath the table.

Sitting next to David was nothing new.  It was still mildly intoxicating; she was too aware of him, too distracted by his every move.  But while they’d been together in public before, at restaurants and theaters and the ballpark, this felt different.  They were among friends, yes, but those friends were largely in couples.  From the outside, did they look like a couple?  Like they belonged together, the way Sarah and Jack did?  Maybe someone objective would look at Judith and David and see a young woman in a beautiful dress, her heart in her eyes every time she looked at the man beside her; and maybe they would see the young man’s gaze linger, unwavering and curious and warm, on her.  Maybe to someone else it would be simple in a way that she couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t yet believe.

* * *

After a succession of lesser acts Medda appeared onstage to enthusiastic applause, which she accepted graciously.  When it died down she announced, “Tonight we’re bringing back an old favorite in honor of a special guest.  Happy birthday, David.”  While a chorus of cheers resounded from the table a young dancer sashayed onstage to hand Medda a large feathered fan; the cheers turned to laughter as the band began to play.  Jack guffawed and Sarah snickered, peeking slyly at both of her brothers.  The flush that stained David’s cheeks at the introduction only deepened as Medda sang about her lovey-dovey baby.  Judith couldn’t tell what was so funny about the song—it struck her as something of a mediocre vaudeville tune—but she couldn’t hide her smile, nor could she look away from David’s face.  Though he was scarlet, he joined Jack in singing along, the two of them laughing, their eyes sparkling.

The song ended with a flutter of the fan and Jack leapt to his feet, whistling and clapping so boisterously one would have thought it was his birthday instead.  Medda blew David a kiss before she sauntered offstage.  When he noticed Judith’s attention on him he leaned over to speak in her ear; she could feel the heat radiating from his cheek.  “That was the song Medda sang the first time I came here.”

“It was love at first sight, then.”

A shiver ran down her spine when a puff of air from his chuckle blew across her ear.  He braced himself with a hand on the back of her chair, knuckles brushing her shoulder blade.  “Nah.  But I was dazzled, that’s for sure.  I mean, I was just sixteen an’ didn’t know anything about girls—”

“Whereas now, with your vast experience, you’d never get nervous if a young lady flirted with you.”  She raised an eyebrow.

“’Course not.  But back then…well, none o’ the ladies at temple were ever so glamorous.”

The angle of her head was putting strain on her neck; to relieve it she turned her body toward him.  They had never been so close before, and she felt her breath grow short.  “When you put it that way I can understand.  And she does have magnificent presence.”

“She’s not the only one.”

He moved back to look her in the eye.  His expression was focused, intense, fascinated.  She was dimly aware that they were not alone, that his sister and brother-in-law were sitting across the table, that their high spirits were undoubtedly having an influence on the way he was looking at her.  She opened her mouth to tell him all of that, but instead what came out was an exhalation of his name.

From the stage came a resounding crash of cymbals, so loud that as Judith jerked back she heard Jack let out a near curse.  He glowered at the one man band currently stomping and squeezing his way through a polka.  David’s hand withdrew from her chair; they both swiveled in their seats to face the stage, and the moment, whatever it had been, faded, though its absence throbbed painfully.

* * *

Sarah covered a yawn.  “What time is it, Davey?”

He checked his pocket watch.  “Quarter after ten.”  It felt later, like they’d been there for hours longer; at the same time she knew the night was still young.

“We’d better go,” Sarah said, shooting her husband a look.  “I’d like to check on Danny.”

He caught her hand, studying her face.  “Bet you’re a little tired, too, huh.”  He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, then stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“A little,” she admitted.  Sarah’s free hand stole up to rest atop the curve of her belly.  The look she and Jack shared was so intimate Judith had to look away.

Judith rose, inelegant and abrupt.  “I should be going, too.”

The men stood, Jack helping his wife to her feet.  Announcing one’s intentions to depart was one thing, but actually leaving was another story: Jack had to find Medda to say goodnight to her; when he returned it was with the proprietress in tow.  She hugged Sarah, wished David happy birthday again with a kiss on the cheek, and shook Judith’s hand warmly.  Then she returned her attention to Jack, looking him over with an almost maternal air before letting him kiss her hand.  Beneath the gaiety of her laugh was an air of melancholy; Judith wondered if the others saw it, too, and decided that Jack must.  But like Medda, he pretended all was well and happy on his friend’s birthday.

At last they stood outside, their breath glowing golden in the lights of the marquee.  “I’m seein’ you home, Dita,” David declared, “and you can’t argue with me about it.  Not tonight.”  He looked smug.  The cap sat pushed back on his head; a curl that had resisted containment bobbed against his forehead.  Had any 23-year-old ever looked so boyish?  She knew he was no innocent; he’d seen the world, the best and the worst of it.  And yet it hadn’t weighed him down.  She wished that he could stay like this forever, this buoyant and happy.

“We should get a cab,” Jack said.

“Will we all fit?”

“Yeah, with all these winter coats an’ a pregnant lady?  Sarah’s definitely takin’ up more space than she used to.”  David smirked at his sister.

Judith expected her to make some cutting remark in return, and so was surprised when Sarah turned to her instead.  “Judith,” she said levelly, “did you know that David sometimes talks in—”

He surged toward her, hands waving, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.  “No!” he yelped.  “C’mon, Sarah, don’t.  Please.”  He glanced back at Judith for a second; the pleading in his eyes would have made her relent, but she wasn’t his sister.  Even seeing his wide-eyed expression didn’t quell her curiosity about whatever Sarah had been about to divulge.  He turned back to her and said, “I’m sorry, really.”

The look she gave him in return was deadly.  “I hope so.”

Jack looked with pity on his friend before taking up the previous conversation again.  “Sure, we’ll fit.  Sarah can sit on my lap.”

Sarah’s tone was still sharp when she asked, “Oh, you won’t complain about all the extra weight?”

Now a flush crept into Jack’s cheeks.  Chagrined, he mumbled, “’Course not.”

“I can walk—”

“ _We_  can walk.”

“We can walk.  It’s fine.”  But as she said the words her stomach roiled.  She wasn’t ready to be alone with him, not after all that had passed between them tonight.  It was ironic, wasn’t it, that the thing she longed for so much scared her so badly.

Sarah, looking from her husband to her brother, sighed.  “No, Jack has a point.  If Davey walks you home, then he’ll have to get from there all the way back to our place by himself.  I know it’s not that late, but Mama will worry.”

“I can send him home in a cab from my place.”

“I’m 23, not 12,” he grumbled.  Then he pointed across the street and said in a louder voice, “Why don’t we just take that one?”

That one was an electric cab lurking near the theater in the hopes of snagging a fare.  It was much the same configuration as a hansom cab, down to the cabbie sitting near the roof at the back; but its rear end was bulkier than a horse-drawn cab’s.  Combined with the lack of an animal harnessed to the front end, the effect was an apparent lack of balance.

Jack glowered at it.  “I don’t trust that thing,” he declared.  When David snorted Jack wheeled on him, demanding, “Do you?  In this weather?  A horse’ll keep his feet under him, but this thing’s got no brains.  An’ how much experience drivin’ does that fella have?  We don’t know.  I’m not lettin’ my wife get in there.”

It did not seem to Judith that Sarah was the type of woman who’d allow her husband to forbid her to do anything.  So she was surprised when Sarah only sent Jack a brief look before telling him, rather patiently, to go find a cab he did trust.  As he stalked down the block Judith studied Sarah.

“Sarah,” she said, “are you free for lunch tomorrow?”  She ignored David’s palpable interest in the question.

“I can be.  Especially if you don’t mind Danny coming along, too.”

“No, that’s fine.”  He was still young enough that he wouldn’t be able to repeat anything he might overhear.  She didn’t plan on discussing anything embarrassing with Sarah, but who knew where the conversation might lead.

“I don’t suppose you know Mrs. Procházka’s.”  When she shook her head Sarah gave directions to the café, concluding by telling Judith, “Skittery—Roman knows where it is, too, if you need a map or anything.”

“That might help.  Pictures are better than words for me.”  It still felt rash to admit a weakness like that to someone, no matter how much she trusted her.  Sarah looked understanding as ever, though.

“Unbelievable,” David said, looking past them both.

Jack’s return was heralded by the clatter of horseshoes on the street, as anyone might reasonably expect.  But the vehicle heading toward them wasn’t a hansom cab but an open carriage drawn by two dark horses.  When they were within earshot he called, “Look who I found!”  The gesture he made seemed to be toward the driver, not the animals, though knowing Jack it could be both.

“Is that—”

“Murray!”  Sarah waved; the driver lifted a hand in laconic greeting as he brought the carriage to a halt.  Jack opened the door and held out his hand for Sarah to take.

“How did you manage this?” David wondered as Sarah clambered up and settled on the rear-facing seat.

“Good timin’.  Judith?”  She took his hand, braced the other on the top of the carriage, put one foot onto the little step beneath the door, and landed safely inside.  “Murray’s takin’ the team back to the stable and said he’d drop us off on the way.”

“Thank you, Murray,” Sarah said over her shoulder.  He nodded.

Judith had sat down opposite Sarah, now snuggled under Jack’s arm.  That left David to take the last remaining seat, next to her, so close their legs were touching.  There was room to spare on the bench but she wasn’t about to move away, not when he was so warm and the breeze that whipped their faces as the carriage pulled away from the curb was so cold.

David stretched one arm along the side of the carriage.  “Is this what being Spot Conlon feels like?”

“Sure, except you can see over the top,” Jack joked.  Then he leaned forward to swat David’s knee.  “That’s who needs a portrait from the finest photographer in Manhattan!”

“Think he’d go for it?  I’m sure there are studios in Brooklyn he’d rather go to.”  He turned to her to explain, “It takes a lot to get Spot to leave Brooklyn.  He’s very proud of the place.”

“So ya tell him Judith’s the best, period, an’ that he’d be stupid to get his portrait made by anybody else.”

David’s face screwed up.  “Why am I the one telling Spot all this?”

“Because, Davey, since you know both of us, it’s up to you to make the introductions.”  Judith bumped her elbow into his arm.  “That’s how it works in polite society.”

He bumped her right back.  “Shows how much you know, thinkin’ Spot Conlon is polite society.”

“Anna would like that,” Sarah put in.

“Anna would laugh.”

“Otherwise,” Judith went on, “what am I supposed to do, wander around Brooklyn looking for someone called Spot and then tell him that Cowboy and the Walking Mouth sent me?”

The others laughed.  “That’d probably work just fine,” Jack said.  “Spot’s pretty well-known on his side o’ the bridge.”

“The most famous newsie in all o’ New York,” Sarah said in a fair approximation of her brother’s voice.

“An’ probably everywhere else, too,” Jack added.  Their teasing was kindly meant, anyone could see that, and David laughed right along with them.  The three of them had been through so much together, knew each other so well, and for a moment she teetered on the brink of melancholy, despairing that she could ever fit into such a unit.  Then she looked at David again, saw how happy he was, and her own worries faded.

“Aha,” he said, leaning into her, just the slightest pressure of his arm against hers.  “So you want me to be a—what’s that word, Jack?”

“Ambastard,” he chortled, and David too shook with laughter.

“That’s what you get when you let a couple of teenage boys run a strike,” Sarah told her.  It was easy enough to imagine what David and Jack and their friends had been like as younger men: brash fellows with raised voices and bruised knuckles, slow to think and quick to act, with attitudes that got them in trouble and friends that got them out of it.  She would like to have known them back then, she thought.  Things would certainly be different if she had.

“It worked out alright in the end,” Jack said.  Sarah shot her a smile before craning her neck up to meet her husband’s eye.

While they were wrapped up in each other David got her attention with another nudge.  “I’ll take ya to Brooklyn, Dita,” he offered in a lowered voice.

She matched his tone.  “You make it sound like the ends of the earth.  It isn’t even as far as Valhalla.”  If it had been hasty of David to invite her so far from home when they’d only just met, it had to have been unwise of her to agree.  How terribly that could have turned out for her! in loss or injury or ruin.  Instead it had led to them sitting shoulder to shoulder in a carriage, led to her giddy with possibility and aching with longing.

“It may not be as far, but it’s lots more dangerous,” he said.  Considering that the only danger she’d seen on their trip had been the possibility of treading in manure, she couldn’t disagree.

“Then it’s even more valiant of you to escort me.”

She couldn’t entirely forget that sitting within hearing distance were his sister and best friend.  But now they were both half turned on the seat, chatting with Murray the driver—“Ya oughta see Sarah drivin’ a farm wagon,” Jack boasted.  “She’s a natural.  You’d never know she was born an’ raised in Manhattan.”—and seemingly uninterested in the other occupants of the carriage.

“Les is the valiant one.  He’s your knight if you ever need one.  I’m the one who tries to talk his way out o’ trouble—an’ that’s after I’ve talked myself into it.”  He ducked his head in a moment of self-deprecation.

She arched an eyebrow and said, deadpan, “Fancy someone called the Walking Mouth having that problem.  On second thought, it may not be a good idea to go into hostile territory with someone who inspires such belligerence.  I’m afraid your mouth could get me into a lot of trouble.”  Though she had not intended them to, her eyes darted to his lips.

It appeared that she should be more worried about her own mouth causing her problems.  Her pulse was hammering, so loud she thought it would drown out any other sound; yet above it she heard him suck in a breath.  The bob of his Adam’s apple was just visible above his scarf.

_Oh, you stupid, stupid girl_ , she thought, but the remonstration lacked heat.  It’s your own heart you’re breaking.  Her head tilted toward him, drawing nearer, though she was unsure of the action’s goal.

From ahead came a soft “Whoa,” and the carriage slowed.  Judith pulled her gaze away from David—David’s clever mouth, David’s burning eyes—to see her building looming.  She said goodnight to the Kellys, shaking Jack’s hand and passing him a half dollar with a flick of her eyes to the driver behind him; he grinned and nodded.

“Tomorrow at 10:30?” Sarah asked.  Judith nodded, smiling absently at her.

David had climbed out and was waiting to help her alight.  She put her hand into his, both grateful for and frustrated by the gloves that formed a barrier between their skin.  When she was safely on the sidewalk he kept hold of her.  “Let me walk you up,” he said.

“I think I can manage.”

“Dita—”

“Don’t make Sarah wait out here in the cold.”  She squeezed his hand, then gently shook free.  Though part of her wished he could come up to her door, come inside for coffee, she knew it was safer to say goodnight here.  Anything he said now could be attributed to his celebratory mood.  The less said under these conditions, the better—the safer, at least, for her.

But that was tonight.  A new year was coming; anything could happen.  And she would be prepared when it did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chag sameach = happy holiday, a Hebrew greeting suitable for many different occasions
> 
> JACK: ALL MY FAVORITE PEOPLE IN ONE PLACE!!!!!!
> 
> (Except Shiv, but she was off havin’ dime-novel adventures with CALVIN!!!)


	135. Lunch with Sarah (29 December 1905)

“I’m under strict orders to formally invite you to Shabbat dinner tonight.”  A grin wasn’t far from her lips but her tone was serious.  “So, Judith, you’re invited to dinner this evening with the Jacobses and a couple o’ Kellys, too.”

“Would you liked a signed statement saying that you carried out your duty?”

“If you don’t mind.”  Sarah flashed a grin at her, then turned to Danny in his pram, pulling it closer to the table.  He immediately began banging his pudgy hands against it, smiling at his mother all the while.  The banging ceased when she put a crescent-shaped cookie into one hand; he brought it to his mouth and sucked at it, appeased.  “We would love for you to join us.  Besides, I bet you’ve never heard a New York Irishman sing  _Eishet Chayil_.”

She snorted at the idea, which made Danny laugh.  “You’re right, of course,” she said, looking at the boy.  From what she’d gleaned from David, Jack hadn’t converted, even though their wedding had been officiated by a rabbi; there had been a chuppah at the ceremony and an Irish band playing at the reception, David said.  Both of Danny’s parents worked for a Christian group, though how much credence Jack had in the faith she didn’t know.  What might Danny grow up to believe, having celebrated Easters at the farm and Hanukkahs in the city?  The differences between her Sephardi Mother and Ashkenazi Papa seemed negligible in comparison. 

Danny noticed her attention and swung his head (and hands) around to face her.  He extracted one hand to say, “Hey.”  He held out the gummy cookie to her.  

“Hey.”  Unsure of whether or not his offer was genuine she made no move to take the cookie.  Babies, as she well knew, would cry at the slightest provocation.  If he was happy now, she wouldn’t be the one to change that. 

“Mama,” he then said, extending the cookie toward Sarah.  She leaned forward and, with a growling noise, nibbled against his fisted fingers.  He squealed with delight before returning the cookie to his mouth. 

Judith glanced around the homey little restaurant, whose decor reminded her of the Jacobs family’s home.  “Is this someplace you come often?  Or came, before you moved, of course.”  She cringed at the awkwardness of the question.

Sarah just shook her head.  “This is only the second time I’ve been.  Skittery— sorry,  _Roman_ —”

“I am smart enough to keep up with their nicknames.”  She smiled to show she wasn’t offended, then admitted, “His, at least, since I see him so often.”  That made her pause.

This get-together had nothing to do with David, she reminded herself; it was about having the chance to talk with Sarah, to learn more from her.  Judith had no intention of bringing up the man they had in common—not that she would mind hearing about him from someone who’d known him his whole life—and even now she hadn’t brought him up, not directly.  But he was there all the same, unavoidable and unmistakable, and the realization brought with it that ache that had grown so familiar by now but also a sweet warmth.  The thought that he was as good as there with her, with them, was enough to inspire a smitten smile.  To hide it she pressed her lips together and looked down at the table.

“Right.”  With Sarah’s laugh Judith didn’t bother concealing her smile any longer.  “Anyway, he’s been coming here for years.  I can’t vouch for the food but the pastries are delicious.  I’ll be Mama’s hero when I bring some home for dessert tonight.”  Her smile was impish. 

Sarah’s looks were unlikely to stop traffic—though, as Judith regarded her across the table, she had to wonder why not.  Evelyn Nesbit was no prettier than Sarah, only better made-up.  Put some rouge on her cheeks and flowers in her hair, drape her in diamonds and silk, and Sarah could look every bit as striking as the model.  But Judith doubted that Evelyn Nesbit ever laughed so openly, smiled so naturally, spoke so honestly, and in all that was Sarah Kelly’s true beauty.

Judith would admit to feeling envious of her in that moment, of her beauty and her happiness both.

As they sipped the tea, something light and herbal, and shared a plate of Danny’s cookies and walnut pastries they talked about their respective Hanukkah celebrations, about work, about the weather.  Their chat was interrupted when a motherly woman came over to check on their tea and coo at Danny.  She tickled him under the chin until he giggled and, when she left, threw his arms out to Sarah and squirmed and babbled until she picked him up.

“You just love attention, don’t you?” she asked him.  “Love showin’ off like your papa.”  He collapsed against her neck and she rubbed his back.

Judith took advantage of the pause.  “I wanted to ask you,” she began, voice quiet in the hopes that she wouldn’t disturb Danny, “about the strike.  I’ve heard bits and pieces about it, and of course we were right there, but…”

In 1899 she’d still been skittish, hiding from the world and pretending she was focused on improving her skills.  It had been impossible to miss the newsboys howling in the square, though she’d counted them all the more reason to stay inside.  If only she’d gone out and talked to them, any one of the young men she now knew; how much different would her life be if that had been the case?  She shook her head and finished, “I haven’t heard anything about what you did.” 

Sarah’s expression sobered.  This was probably not the kind of light conversation she’d expected; but Judith felt sure she would answer.  And indeed she did.

“Not as much as I’d’ve liked to.  Have you heard about the  _Banner_?”  Judith shook her head.  “It was the one-sheet we put out that exposed Snyder and what was really happening in the Refuge.  I helped with that—printin’ it, and distributing it to workers around the city.  And I was there for a couple o’ the rallies, the one Medda hosted and the last big one in the square.

“But Mama and I were the only ones earning any money durin’ the strike.  Dave an’ Les had only gone to work after Papa had lost his job; then when the strike started they weren’t making any money, either.  I believed in what the newsies were fighting for, but if I’d walked out of my job, how would we eat?”

_How will we eat?_  was a question Judith had never had to ask.  She’d never had cause to worry about where her next meal would come from—and in this city that put her among the privileged few.  Her gaze fell to the tabletop, where a half-eaten slice of walnut roll sat on her plate; she pushed it away with one finger.

“I should have paid more attention to the strike.  I was certainly old enough, but…”  There was no excusing it, only explaining.  She looked up, met Sarah’s eyes.  “I was self-absorbed, only interested in my own problems.  I still am.  But your family—you’re helping children at the farm, David is exposing injustice, and I’m just taking pictures.”

Sarah shook her head.  “Don’t think that all of our choices are selfless.  Jack an’ I are at the farm because he still wants to be a cowboy but I don’t want to be too far away from my family.  Dave is a good writer, but if he hadn’t met Denton he’d probably be working as a clerk somewhere, bored to tears during business hours and agitating against the bosses after work.  It’s probably safer for him to be a reporter than anything else.

“We’ve gotta stay alive, so we work to make money to do that.  But as for everything else, as for our neighbors and the people we work with and the kids who shine our shoes…”  Conviction rang in her voice, shone in her eyes.  “We do good where we can, when we can.”

Nothing could sound more sensible, more reasonable, and yet more commanding, more urgent.  No words could pass the thickness in her throat.  She nodded at Sarah to show that she understood, then absently lifted her teacup to her lips as she mused on Sarah’s counsel.  Put like that it seemed not one immense undertaking, one crushing weight, but a series of small tasks: to do one good thing and then another, and to do that over and over.  Whether or not it was what Sarah meant she wasn’t sure; but it calmed the roiling of guilt in her stomach and the mounting anxiety in her mind.

Before much longer Danny started to fuss.  His face grew pinker and pinker and his eyes wet; Judith knew from many an interrupted session that soon that wetness would become fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and his mewling would turn to screams.  Sarah recognized it, too, and began settling him into the pram, with assurances that everything was alright, and that they’d be home soon.

In the meantime Judith paid the bill.  It was the very least she could do.  She even paid for the pastries Sarah picked out to take home, though not without protest.  Sarah wedged the box in the pram where Danny couldn’t reach it.  

“You should come tonight,” she said, causing Judith to wonder if she was so easily forgiven.  “It’ll be fun.  And Mama and I could use another woman around, so we’re not outnumbered.  Right, sunshine?” she asked her son.  When Judith opened her mouth to say that she’d try to make it, an answer far less conflicted than she felt, Sarah went on, “Just show up if you decide to come.  You know the way.”

Out on the sidewalk they paused for just a moment.  Sarah would go one way back to the apartment; Judith would go another to the studio.  It was too cold to linger, especially not with a child, and Sarah pulled a knit cap over Danny’s head. 

“Before you go…” Judith began, her pulse quickening as Sarah looked over her shoulder.  She knew her voice would be wrong, too tight, or too loud, or too quick to sound casual, and she knew that Sarah would see through any attempted pretense, but she was too curious not to ask.  “Last night, you said something about David talking?”

Sarah laughed, loud enough for her to clap a hand over her mouth.  “Sorry,” she said from behind her hand, “sorry.  I shouldn’t have brought that up—not that he didn’t deserve it.  I should probably leave him some shred of dignity to cling to for now, though.  But, Judith,” she said, completely in earnest, “I really hope you find out someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Sarah isn’t saying is that David talks in his sleep.
> 
> JACK: YOU’LL NOT ONLY HEAR ME SING IT, YOU’LL CONCLUDE IT’S THE BEST* VERSION YOU EVER HEARD!!!!!
> 
> * POSSIBLY a SLIGHT improvement of the truth.


	136. Modern AU Character Playlists

**Hana**

[Si pre mňa best](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FvafhDTgq64Y&t=YzY0NjVkZDQ0MmYxZTlkMjZkZmU4OWU3Nzg0ZDQ0OGFkYzhiNzRiZCxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Kristína_  
[Princess of the Light](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FZwj6ZHHyl3k&t=YjlkOTRmZGQ5NDdlOTc3NGQ3NjY3NmNkZTllNWZiNzA2MzkzMjk0NSxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Lavagance_  
[Mamma Mia](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Funfzfe8f9NI&t=MzM4ZTkwMTE2N2VhNTA5NmIyYjRmZWYwZjQyZjJhNzM3ZGEzOTA4ZSxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _ABBA_  
[Ľahká](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F-BpQZlDaqyM&t=MzY0OTMyMGY4NWIwMjE3MmJiNjBmMWY0ZGIxYTNlOGMxYjkzN2UyYSxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Korben Dallas_    
[Koho ľúbim](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FCFSGeQhFECI&t=YzUzOTUwYzhhMjYxN2VlMTFmMTI3Y2ZiYjZiY2QwN2Y0MzdkZjZmNixSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Kandráčovci_    
[Horehronie](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F_0CaeDo-wEY&t=Y2JjZTdlMTE1ZDljMjA0ZWJjYmFhYzUyZWZlZDU3ZGQwMTRmMWE4NyxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Kristína_    
[Aj tak sme stále frajeri](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FvMKZquwU1ag&t=NWZlYWI3NjMzNTZiMTdhYmZhZjhhMDA3MmVmMzVjMGMxZDU0MDgzNCxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Peter Nagy_  
[Láska na vlásku](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FFRIm7d9iYV8&t=OWQ2OTRmNDQ0ZWE4YmI0ODhhMDFiMTM4NTQ1OTFkOWU3OTgwZDAyNSxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Celeste Buckingham_    
[Žehnaj dieťa/Bless the Child](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FPu1v9tqRFK4&t=NWQ5MmU4ZmZiMzgwNmE5YjgzMTIxNjcxYzVhYTBiZDAzNDc1ZDFjZSxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _Hrdza and Šafolka_  
[To Find You](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FG9L4U7Q5ZvI&t=NGI1ZjY3YTk2NjlmMTc4ZDhlOGI5MWRhYWI2MzQwMWIyMGMxYzAzZCxSeHU3T3ZzeA%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172809527005%2Fa-playlist-for-modern-hana-si-pre-m%C5%88a&m=1)   _from “Sing Street”_

 

**Skittery**

[Plain Sailing Weather](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fr1ohnY0FVzQ&t=YTczZmYyZDNiNjMyYTZmM2JmYjg0OTY5ZGEyM2I0MDJlNDllNjVmMCxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Frank Turner_    
[Get It Faster](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FlESbn_HGh4Y&t=ZjQ3MGMxZDhjYzdlMjAzYmYwMDUwMzc0OTMwZTc2ZWE1ODRkNjAzZCxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Jimmy Eat World_  
[Stupid Kid](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FcKWgR2zivYs&t=MDk1ZDgyZjc1ZTZmOGJkY2M3NzllNWE0NmU1NTM4ZDE2NDQ0ODllMSxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Alkaline Trio_  
[Drumming Song](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FSu4tTA4Q8cI&t=YzFiYTVmNTU1YTcyZmQ2Zjg4NzRlNjhmNzM2NGM2OGUyNzhmNDgwNixkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Florence + the Machine_  
[Out Through the Curtain](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FITUUx9k6Hb0&t=NGVlN2I2MDk5NTQ2YmZiYzg5YzA3OTU4YjYxOWIyNTJlNzhlMGVkMSxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)  _The Hush Sound_  
[The Moldau](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FyxN7dXbQ23A&t=MDdjM2Q5NzE3YTA5ZWM0MTZiMjQ3MjJkM2YzNzFlZDg2ZTM0NjVkZCxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Bedřich Smetana_  
[Bouncing Off the Walls](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fie_EcQxeiWU&t=Y2JkNzRlMTg4YzY0MzI5MzFhYTRjMjM5NDYyZDE5NWIxYTA1YjI4YixkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Sugarcult_  
[Only the Good Die Young](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FZQ_m236f_eM&t=MTYwNTM4ZDQ4ZmJlMzlhNGYyZTg5OGNjN2JmNjk1Yjc2NDE1N2I3ZixkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Billy Joel_  
[Hakuna Matata](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fgac7eyN4Y9A&t=NzcxOTc3N2I1ZjM0ZDBkMjQ2YTgwZmU3YzY2Y2I3ZjhkOGQwNDgzYixkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _from “The Lion King”_  
[Blitzkrieg Bop](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FkrokQtkvd9M&t=ODI4YjczNGUwMmE2ODkzMGE1MGIwMDJkMGMwNGE3ZGQ5NzRkOWU3NSxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _The Ramones_

BONUS: [There She Is](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F75OIEgh8wgk&t=NzQwMjcwMmI1YzEzYTEwOTlmYWRlMDE0OGI1OTE5YTk1Y2U5ODgxNSxkWjFGZ2dmbw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173111570745%2Fa-little-bit-sweary-playlist-for-modern&m=1)   _Frank Turner_

 

**Pauline**

[Moon River](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DG50jixUB91g&t=YTY0OTJlZjkyNWNlOGI1ZTgwNzIyYmJhZTA2ZGZhNWE5ZmY0NmJiYyxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)  _Henry Mancini_  
[Pleasant and Delightful](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DQ3ZYD6xuB2s&t=NDg5MTZmZWI3ZjJjMzcxNWU4MTVhNmU5NGNhZGM4MTBiMzkwMGQ5YyxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _The Virginia Company_  
[That’s How You Know](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D2idK0qoBuWo&t=MTRhZGZhZGZkN2RmOWI5MmE3ODEyMjFlZWQyNzliZWQ0NjdiZDYwOCxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _from “Enchanted”_  
[Disgusting](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DqBlVYmHVnZY&t=YTdmN2MwNDFmOTRmMDkxZWM5ZmVhM2YxNDI0NjQ5OGFkZDZlZjRhYSxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Ke$ha_  
[Dance With Me Tonight](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DSyW-nG8zdxc&t=YWY5YzliODg5NmFmN2NjNjZmYThhY2FkNjZlNTBmMDc2YzMxNTBkNixCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Olly Murs_  
[I Want to Hold Your Hand](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D6TUVAjlyyas&t=NTRmYjY5ODFkZGFhMWYxYTg0ZTk3YTg4OTczMWMxZDc5OGNiZTRhOCxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _The Beatles_  
[To A Wild Rose](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FN3F9tmIpg-w&t=MWM3NjIwY2Q4ZWM0NGE2Y2JkYzBiZmE2OGIwMWVlOTdiYzJjZjc0YyxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Edward MacDowell_  
[Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F4EEV-YEKrdw&t=NjMyYWNiY2I1NmNiMjE3NjRmYzcyYThiOWUyNTQzZGFhYjBiNjFjYyxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Josh Groban_  
[Don’t Go Breaking My Heart](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F3CWgmrvL6_s&t=NmJiNjZkMWE1YzgwZjE1N2FjZTM4ZWEwYmFhNDAyOGJhYjMwYjljZSxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Elton John and Kiki Dee_  
[Dancing in the Dark](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FnCFTL4IO6t4&t=NDZkNTBiOWIyYjQwNDFkYzlkNTc5MjExNzQ2N2ZjODY5NTUwMGU0MyxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _Bruce Springsteen_

BONUS: [Chelsea Dagger](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FAcOoyH2-ZTU&t=OGZlZGYyNDNjNGFhMmQyMmZkYWQ1YmY4NjZiNzU1M2NkZTkzNDVmNCxCWW1pem1mUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173077598075%2Fmodern-pauline-playlist-moon-river-henry&m=1)   _The Fratellis_

 

**Judith**

[Kodachrome](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F8rlDTK6QI-w&t=ZmI2OWNlN2Q4YjZlMDVjMjUxNmQxM2Y0OTY1OGYxZjQzNGVmN2U1NyxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Paul Simon_  
[Mrs. Robinson](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F9C1BCAgu2I8&t=YWM0YmZjZDZiNjk0OWYwNzJlMTYyMmIwOTg2MzM2M2RiNzQxMzZmMSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Simon and Garfunkel_  
[Bulletproof](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FKk8eJh4i8Lo&t=YmJiOWVlNzA1OTJmODZkMDE1N2E4MzJhYTBlMGVjY2EzNzZjZTM5MSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _La Roux_  
[Dancing in the Dark](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F129kuDCQtHs&t=YTA3MjU3MzgxOThmNDNlYjIyYzA5NmI1ODM3ZTMyNjMzZTI1Mjg5NyxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Bruce Springsteen_  
[Precious Illusions](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fb4jZgrIg3TU&t=ZDJkYjVjNzhmOTgwNjI0NmIzY2U0MzJjZWUxODJmYWVmZGYyZThhYixqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Alanis Morissette_  
[The End of Love](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FsO-YTZC-KQ8&t=NTQ0MzQ4OTEyZDIyOWYxNDJlNGM2MmNkZjRkODBiZTM2M2IwMWRkMSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Florence + the Machine_  
[Cello Concerto in E Minor Opus 85 Movements 1 and 2](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FWr-Ou-Ndu3c&t=NDNiMTFkMmFiMzYwOGEzNzNiM2JjMWZjMmJhZGZmNzQzMmUyODNkMSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Edward Elgar_  
[Miracle](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FDom_X7YXf8s&t=YWFlOTc5MWUxZTBjODE4N2M5N2E0ZTA4NTU1N2MyOGVlMDY0OTNjOSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Matisyahu_  
[Rosa Branca](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FB6hvPK2ze58&t=ZTY2ODEzMGRmODJmYjkyOGExNjUxNzZmZDUzYmE1ZWMyZjFiN2M2OSxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Mariza_  
[The Most Beautiful Things](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fet6AEZ40FUs&t=NDdlYWU2MWNlNWZlNmEwNzU5M2EzNTRjODM0ZDk4MWJlMGQwZTQ4ZCxqTHBHaXFsOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F176283846895%2Fat-long-last-modern-judiths-playlist&m=1)   _Jimmy Eat World_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that I used "Dancing in the Dark" twice, but I stand by that.


	137. Garrett (11 January 1906)

David Jacobs was personable, witty, and attentive, but Garrett wasn’t sure how good his work ethic was.

He seemed to appear at the studio several times per week, or else Garrett would catch Judith coming or going and she’d admit, through teeth clenched as if in pain, that she’d met up with him or was on her way to: at that café, a vaudeville hall, even his home.  Garrett was willing to believe that reporters had flexible hours and that their work called for much exercising of shoe leather; by now he also believed that the boy’s supervisor was a rather lax and trusting fellow.  With any luck his confidence in David would remain intact, and David’s employment would continue uninterrupted.

Cooky was halfway in love with the young man already.  If he hadn’t realized it by now, he was a bigger putz than Garrett had taken him for.  

(How his old schoolteachers would despair of the vocabulary he’d built up here in the cold and inhospitable north!  (As if being inhospitable were impossible south of the Mason-Dixon line.)  (As if he’d had to leave Richmond to meet young Jewish men to teach him delightful Yiddish terms.  The boys from Beth Shalome sounded just as southern as he did, while Tobias Cook’s faint accent would later remind him of the congregants from Beth Ahabah.)  How he’d been taunted and threatened here when he arrived from Virginia, honeysuckle all but dripping from his lips every time he opened his mouth.)

As for David’s own feelings, Garrett couldn’t be sure.  But he did keep coming back.  Did keep leaning toward her when she talked.  Did keep watching her, expression sometimes bemused or pensive.  

The arrangement with the Portuguese fiancé had never sat well with Garrett, though he’d held his tongue as no one had asked his opinion.

(It had to be noted that “The Affair of the Portuguese Fiancé” would be a catchy title for a certain style of fiction.  Cooky had always been good enough to acquire for him whatever reading material it might appear unseemly for him to be seen buying in public.)

Since he was only coworker, not kin, he kept all headshaking and dire warnings to himself.  Maybe it was for the best—oh, that scoundrel being ferried right off to prison and not staking any claim on the business or on Judith’s good name, reputation, and tender heart was certainly for the best.  But maybe the hurt had had a positive effect, too: in recovering she’d really learned her trade, and that had brought new opportunities to their door, new relationships.

From the first time they’d been introduced he’d been Mr. Till to her, the title as formal and proper as could be.  All those years ago she’d been a too-solemn starveling-faced little thing, studying him with luminous eyes.  Back home so many years of acquaintance and proximity would have led to him eventually becoming Mr. Garrett instead; now that she was an adult he might even expect her to call him by his given name, the way Isabela did.  Yet he remained Mr. Till—though that first formality had long since faded.  Her eyes shone just as brightly now as they ever had, but after all these years he knew her well enough to tell that they were more often happy now than they had been before.

And like him though he did, if that David turned out to be an  _Arschloch_  (now that word he had learned from his business partner) and took that happiness away from her, well…  

Bless his heart.

* * *

“Mornin’, Mr. Till.”  David stepped up to the desk, stripping off a glove to shake hands.

“David.”  Despite the glove David’s hand was still cool, his grip firm and confident, and he met Garrett’s gaze steadily, with a faint smile.  On impulse he said, “Reckon you could manage to call me Garrett?”

David’s smile widened a bit.  “Sure.  Thanks,” he added, a little bashfully.

Garrett waved the latter away.  “She’s with a client right now,” he said, “just went up.”  David glanced toward the stairs as if Judith would reappear at this discussion.  “But if you can stay a minute I can make coffee, so you won’t have come all this way in vain.”

He was hoping the temptation would be enough, that David would take refuge for a moment in the warm little parlor and nurse a cup of coffee while he waited to see if maybe he’d be able to catch a glimpse of Judith.  (David probably wasn’t pining the way Garrett had at his age, though.  He was probably too level-headed to resort to the kinds of complicated maneuvers Garrett had undertaken so that he’d just so happen to end up in the vicinity of an object of his affection.)

His cheeks turned a darker pink.  “It’s not that far out o’ my way…”

(Not a complicated maneuver at all, then.)

“…but I wouldn’t say no to coffee.”

“Make yourself at home,” he said.  He caught David’s nod from the corner of his eye as he went into the workroom.  It didn’t take long to heat up the coffee and cut a few slices of leftover panettone; he arranged cake and coffee on a tray and carried it out.

Rather than sitting in the comfortable chairs (nearer the stairs) David had pulled a chair up to one end of the desk.  Garrett changed course to set the tray in front of him there.  “I thought we’d better stay here if you’re on desk duty,” David explained.  Though he was probably right, that didn’t stop the twinge of disappointment Garrett felt.

As he poured milk into his cup he asked, “How were your holidays?”

An innocuous question, yet one that seemed to fluster David: his eyes widened for a second before dropping, and his fingers flexed around his cup.  After a hurried swallow he nodded, looking up again, and said, “They were good.  Sarah an’ Jack brought Danny down for part o’ Hanukkah—”

“And your birthday,” he couldn’t help putting in.  David looked even more abashed now.

“Right.  It was nice havin’ everyone together for a while.”

Garrett lowered his slice of panettone into the milky coffee, belatedly hoping no bits of fruit would fall into the depths.  “They don’t live in the city?”  The ignorance was only half feigned.  He knew full well that Cooky had gone with David on a short train ride north, but all of those Westchester County towns with fairy-tale names were hard to tell apart.

“No, they’re up at the Brace Farm in Valhalla.  It’s a sort of vocational school where kids, orphans an’ kids whose parents can’t take care of ’em, can learn if they’re suited to farm work before they commit to leavin’ the city for good an’ being placed somewhere out west.  It’s a nice place.  Jack an’ Sarah are happy there.”

During their brief acquaintance Garrett had seen that Jack moved the way the horsey crowd around Richmond did—though many of those men would turn up their noses at the suggestion that they had anything in common with someone like Jack.  He seemed comfortable in the city, though, and he sounded like the rest of Cooky’s urchins, loud and rough and good-natured.

David, on the other hand, moved like a New Yorker: like someone who knew where he was going and was determined to get there, no matter the obstacles his path might present.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”  While his tone was still light, his eyes had narrowed just a smidgen.  Garrett understood the wariness and leaned back a little.

“Any plans to move out to the country?  With your experience as a reporter here, surely you could run one of those small-town papers.”

He snorted.  “Printed rumor mills, you mean.  Who’s fightin’ with their neighbor, who’s marryin’ who, what everybody wore to the church social…”

“Nothing like the society pages of any metropolitan newspaper,” Garrett remarked, offhand and mild. 

David tilted his head.  “Ya got me there,” he said with a little chuckle.  “I try to stay away from the society writers.  Too much pomade an’ cologne in their department.”  He wrinkled his nose and took a sip of coffee before continuing, “I’ve barely gotten started in my career here.  Maybe when I’m gettin’ ready to retire I’ll think about takin’ over one o’ those small-town papers like you’re talking about, but that won’t be for a long time.  I plan on stayin’ right here—”  He knocked his knuckles against the desk’s surface.  “ —where I know I can do the most good.”

Of course his “right here” didn’t literally mean right here, spending time at Till & Cook while Judith worked upstairs.  But why not?  Why shouldn’t it?  

(Just because he didn’t express all of his opinions on her life to Cooky didn’t mean he didn’t have them.  And just because they weren’t related by blood didn’t mean he couldn’t care about her.)  

“If doing good is the goal, why not get into politics?  Become an alderman, say, and you can help the whole city.”

David shook his head at that, setting a curl to gently bouncing on his forehead.  It was entrancing.  “Roosevelt may have cut down on corruption in the city, but it’s still hard for honest guys to get involved.  Especially if they don’t have connections in the system—which, if they  _are_  honest, they probably don’t.”

“And you’re one of the honest fellows?”

“I am a notoriously bad liar,” he admitted.

“Rather a hindrance in the political arena.”

“I can’t lie, I’m not crooked, and I’m not connected, so my political career’s a non-starter.  But I’ve still got the power o’ the press.  I still believe in that.  That’s the only way I’m gonna change things.”

Far from the only way.  He’d already changed things here, he and his family, the urchins, that pert little shopgirl across the square.  Short of Judith telling him there was no way for David to know how things had been before—or after, as the case may be, after the former fiancé whose name need not be spoken (or, The Fortuitous Betrayal).  Still, even without knowing just how bleak things had been after The Incident at Sea (stop it, Garrett, really), he had to see how she was flourishing at last.  If he couldn’t see it, he was stupider than he seemed. 

“Hey, ah, Mr. Till?—Garrett.  When is Dita’s birthday?  Judith’s, I mean.  You know.”  His cheeks were rosy and his eyes averted to where he tore a piece of panettone from his slice, shoved it in his mouth, and swallowed hard.  That he was so flustered was endearing enough; hearing him use that nickname without hesitation, with every evidence of affection, was the cherry on top.  With some effort Garrett kept his face mostly impassive.

“Not until August,” he said, “the twenty-fifth.  You’ll have plenty of time to come up with something to get her.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  “Yeah.  I know I can’t give her what she wants most, though,” he said, and Garrett’s insides, so recently turned to mush with optimism, solidified in short order.  Oblivious to the steely gaze now boring into him David went on, “I can’t give her a way to take color pictures.  That’s what would make her happiest—but if you want somethin’ that much for that long, getting it is gonna make you more than just happy.  You’ve gotta have some more profound emotion when the deepest longing of your soul is fulfilled.”

These last few musings had been more to himself than anyone else, and for a second Garrett wished he hadn’t heard them.  But he had, and upon realizing this David’s face went scarlet.  When he squared his shoulders and addressed his next words to Garrett, the latter added to his estimation: David Jacobs was brave. 

“She deserves that satisfaction, an’ I don’t think I can give it to her.”

Garrett was silent for a long moment, longer than he would have thought possible in such a scenario.  The wrong words here could put David off, could hurt Cooky’s feelings; it was imperative that he did neither of those things.  Eventually he said, “If I might offer one piece of advice, very generally.”  He paused until David nodded.  “Don’t ever presume you know what someone else wants, or needs.  Just ask.  Talk about things.  It’ll save you all kinds o’ trouble in the long run.”

David opened his mouth to reply, then shut it and nodded.  They drank their coffee quietly for a moment before David drained his cup and set it down on the tray.  “I should be gettin’ back,” he said, sighing a little as he stood.  Garrett rose too.  “Thanks for the coffee.  And the advice.”  He blinked down at the desk, seeming to study the pattern in the wood where his fingertips rested.  Then he lifted his hand to shake Garrett’s, giving him a grim sort of smile.  Garrett clasped his hand and squeezed his shoulder for good measure.

When David had pulled his coat and gloves on, he glanced at the stairs once more.  “Will ya tell her…”  The request trailed off, his wish remaining nebulous.

“I’ll tell her you missed her,” Garrett said quietly.  David gave him a nod before heading out.

Garrett carried the tray into the workroom and washed up.  When Cooky descended, walking her client to the door and telling the woman goodbye, there was a cup of coffee and a slice of cake waiting for her; and when he told her about David’s visit Garrett’s heart clenched at the smile she tried to hide, the glow that lit her face.


	138. In a Day (22 January 1906)

_Morning_

“I can’t even begin to tell you how thrilling this is.  It’s like watching Michelangelo paint.”

“It’s like watchin’ paint dry.”

“Oh, ha ha.”  David didn’t so much as look up from the page he was filling with hurried jottings.  “I seem to recall tellin’ you that I wouldn’t be good company ’cause I had to finish makin’ these notes, an’ gettin’ dragged over here all the same.“

“Dragged?  I did nothing of the sort, Mr. Jacobs,” Judith sniffed.  “That would be uncouth, and heaven knows I wouldn’t force you to go anywhere you didn’t want to go.”

He may have been making all kinds of excuses as they crossed the square but he’d followed anyway.  He could have gone right back to the  _Sun_ ’s offices—he could have skipped stopping by the studio altogether—but he hadn’t.  A delicious sense of power had tingled through her when she’d realized that he was at her heels, no matter what other obligations he had.

Despite that taste of power she was glad that he had work to do, and that Roman, evidently bored, hovered nearby.  Whatever had passed between David and her the night of his birthday hadn’t gone away; since then she’d been torn by the contradictory desires to get him alone and see what happened, and to have all of their interactions chaperoned.  She didn’t entirely trust herself to be as close to him as she’d been that night without transgressing some barrier, crossing a line that could not be uncrossed.  She may have come to grips with what she wanted with him, in both ideal and realistic scenarios, but she was by no means certain of how he felt.  So she went on craving his company and shying from any opportunity for him to tell her he wasn’t interested in hers.

“Ya didn’t exactly give me a chance to say no,” he said now, and she froze.  Her throat grew hot and tight; she felt Roman’s gaze on her and didn’t look up, fearing the pity she would find there would undo her.  There was a possibility, however slight, that if she went now she could excuse herself with some dignity.  Her fingers had found a nickel to pay for their coffee and she’d shifted her weight to push back from the table when he added, “I’m glad ya didn’t.”

“Because I’m paying for your coffee.”  She sounded breathless.

At last his eyes lifted from his notebook.  “I can live without coffee, ya know,” he said, lips quirked in a flash of a smile.  Their eyes caught and the smile faded from his lips and now she felt breathless, too.  The toe of his shoe nudged hers, once in what might have been an accident and again in what probably wasn’t.

I can live without coffee, he said.  What, then, could he not live without? 

When she trusted herself to speak she said, “I’d like to see you try.”

“No, you don’t,” Roman cut in.  “Dave gets vicious without his coffee.”

“Shut up, Skitts.”  As he returned to his notes she didn’t begrudge them his attention.

“See?”  When she looked up at him Roman tipped her a wink.  His smile was amused, not pitying in the slightest.  She didn’t mind returning it.

“Ya gotta watch out for this one, Jude,” he went on.  “He may look harmless with those soft curls—”  He ran a hand over David’s head until he ducked away.  “—and baby blues, but the mouth on him…”  Roman let out a whistle.

Though David didn’t raise his head his cheeks still looked pink.  “Can ya  _please_ shut up?  I’ve just got a little more to finish.”

“Here, I’ll help ya.”  For a horrible second she thought Roman was about to snatch up the notebook and that David would start a fight right in the middle of Tibby’s.  Instead Roman leaned over David’s shoulder for a moment, peering down at the page, and said, “Whom.”

“What?”

“No, whom.  Right here.”  Roman pointed to a spot on the page.  

David’s tone was defensive as he shoved Roman’s hand away.  “They’re just notes.  I’m the only one who reads them, usually.”  He read the words the other had indicated anyway, his frown deepening as his lips moved silently; then he scribbled something where Roman had indicated.

“I hate it when you’re right,” he muttered, “and ya usually are.  Anything else?”

Roman leaned back, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.  “Thought they was just notes.”

In lieu of a spoken response David flapped the notebook at Roman.  Still smug he took it, turned back a page, and began to read; as he became absorbed in the task his smirk fell away, replaced by an expression of concentration.  David drummed his pencil against the tabletop while he waited, then took advantage of the opportunity to swig his coffee.  After a moment Roman set the notebook on the table and leaned down next to David, weight braced on one hand as with the other he pointed at the page.

“This isn’t clear,” he said.  “You can figure it out, but ya gotta read it a couple o’ times first.”  David wrote something that elicited a nod.  “Yeah.  An’ here—”  He flipped a page and circled a chunk of text with his finger.  “This’s your opinion, Dave, not the facts.”

“I’m not wrong” came the stubborn reply.

“I didn’t say ya were.  But I thought ya were s’posed to let the readers make up their minds.  If you told ’em all the facts, the conclusion should be obvious, right?”

“Right.”  In two strokes David crossed out a paragraph.  “I’ll fix it later,” he grumbled, letting the pencil drop with a clatter; then he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Roman.

Judith’s gaze flicked between the two young men, from David to Roman and back.  The longer David assessed him the more discomfited Roman grew; he stole a glance at her but she could only shrug, just as unsure as he what David was up to.  Until David revealed that she admired his profile: that enviable jawline, the sweep of his hair, the dark spot just over his lip that on a woman would be called a beauty mark.  She could only imagine teasing him about it, telling him it made him very beautiful indeed, brushing her thumb over the spot.  The Judith in her imagining was cool and elegant, her hand steady as it cradled his chin; in real life her fingers trembled at the mere thought of touching him, and her heart ached painfully.  She shook the feelings away as best she could, and returned her attention to the standoff before her, just as Roman’s patience came to its end.

“What?” he snapped.  He looked down at his uniform, apron only slightly spotted with grease, then back up at David.  

In spite of Roman’s glower David hadn’t moved.  “When do you get off work?”

This wasn’t the response either of them had expected.  “Three,” Roman said.  “Why?”

“Come to the  _Sun_  after.  I want ya to meet somebody.”

“Yeah, who?”

David stood and looked Roman in the eye—rather closely in the eye, as Roman hadn’t backed away when David got up.  “I’ve got an idea.  I can’t make ya any promises right now, but I hope ya trust me enough to show up.”  Roman still looked doubtful so David went on, “Listen, don’t worry, alright?  Just after you’re done here get cleaned up and get down to the Row as quick as ya can.  I’ll see ya there.”  With a thump to Roman’s bicep he moved toward the door.

His injunction against anxiety was going unheeded.  She fished a dime out of her purse and added to the nickel she’d found earlier; she pressed both coins into his palm.  He blinked at her, his dark eyes shadowed by furrowed brows.  “I don’t know what he’s planning,” she said, “but I’m sure he means well.”  The rising inflection in her statement belied her certainty.

That got a dry chuckle.  “Thanks.  If ya figure it out, let me know.”  She left him shaking his head as she hurried to catch up to David.

He was waiting at the door, doing up last button on his coat.  Though he’d walked away he now made up for it by holding the door open for her.  “For the record, Mr. Reporter,” she said as she passed, “telling someone not to worry before dashing off with no explanation doesn’t really help matters any.”

“He’ll be fine.  I didn’t explain because I don’t wanna get his hopes up in case this doesn’t work out.”  They reached the Greeley statue in the middle of the square and stopped; she wondered for a moment if they were visible from the studio or the dress shop.  

“What do you have in mind, Davey?”

“A long shot,” he said, “so I gotta go do some fast talkin’ before he gets there.”  He didn’t hurry off, though, but stayed in place, fiddling with a button on his coat. 

“Keep your fingers crossed that this works out, alright?  It’s a waste havin’ someone as smart as him waitin’ tables, just ’cause…well, just ’cause of a lot o’ things.  He deserves a break, a, a chance to prove himself.”  When he paused to suck in a breath his head tilted to one side.  “Why’re you smilin’ like that?”

It wasn’t until he pointed it out that she felt her lips were indeed curved up.  “I want you on my side,” she said.  Her heart was light, and though she knew saying such things out loud ought to scare her, her nerves were steady.  “If I’m ever in trouble, I want David Jacobs believing in me, fighting for me.”  Even if she never had anything else from him, she wanted his faith.

The bemused expression didn’t leave his face.  “I will.  You know I will.  And o’ course I believe in you, Dita.”  He shuffled a step closer.  “Anything you need, all you gotta do is ask.  You can count on me.  Promise.”

Again there was that frisson, and with it another barely-suppressed shiver.  Surely he felt it too.  His eyes were beseeching and wide, his lips parted as if about to speak.  That beauty mark—she’d never be able to think of it as anything else—was tantalizingly within reach.  When she’d managed to pull her attention away from his mouth she murmured “Thank you.”  She barely recognized that voice as her own, not when it was gone all low and velvety like that.  What did she think she was doing, speaking to him—to anyone—like that?  And in public!

She gave a brittle laugh and raised one hand, fingers crossed.  “I’ll keep them crossed all afternoon,” she said, “for both of you.  But you’d better hurry, or that fast talking will have to be even faster.”

He rocked back on his heels as if recoiling from a blow.  “Yeah,” he said, “guess you’re right,” but still he lingered.

“I hope you’ll come by tomorrow and let me know how it goes.”  She knew she didn’t deserve it, not after the distance she’d put between them yet again, but that didn’t stop her from wanting it.

David lifted his eyes to the heavens and sighed.  “Yeah.  I’ll tell ya about it tomorrow.”  Then, before she had time to avoid them, his eyes were on hers, sharp and intense.  “But only if you make me the good coffee.”

“I—”  She sucked in a breath, tried to regain her balance.  “I thought you could live without it.”

It seemed like another conversation, less literal and more important, was happening just below this one, but she wasn’t sure.  That was the problem: that she couldn’t be sure of anything, save how she felt.  Next time she took a liking to someone she’d have to make sure he wasn’t a writer first.

He shrugged.  “I could, but I don’t want to.  See you tomorrow, Dita.”  

To his departing back she sighed, “I can’t wait.”

* * *

_Evening_

“Maťo?” Mama called as the door opened.  She hadn’t heard the muffled knock, then, one that Hana had only just been able to hear in the kitchen, where she was putting away the last of the clean dishes.  “ _Si to ty?_ ”

“Nah, it’s just me.”  Hana closed the cupboard and turned to greet Roman, now shedding his overcoat.  They met in the middle of the room, he leaning down to kiss her, she reaching up to stroke his cool cheek.  Mama put her head out of the bedroom to ask if he wanted anything to eat.

“No, thanks,” he said, lacing his fingers through Hana’s.  “I ate with Dave an’ his folks.”  She was far more interested in this news than Mama, who merely nodded before pulling her head back in.

Roman, she noticed now, was wearing a tie, though it was loosened and askew, the top button of his shirt undone.  As he took his usual place on the settee she studied him: his face was drawn, and there was puzzlement in his eyes.  But he did not look unhappy, and she breathed out a quiet sigh.  Instead of cuddling into his side she next to him, one leg tucked under her so she could face him.  Their hands were still joined; she lifted them to kiss the back of his hand, then covered it with her free hand and dropped all three in her lap.  The smile he gave her glowed like an ember.  Sitting like this, with a man she loved so much and who loved her in return, filled her with a joy she’d never expected to feel.

“Dave and Judith came in this mornin’, as usual, except Dave was too busy workin’ on a story to pay much attention to her.”  Roman’s work stories these days often featured this pair; at first Hana had been surprised that he felt so invested in their happiness, but she supposed that seeing them nearly every day meant he felt involved.  He often ranted about how dumb David was being and how Judith deserved better than having to wait around for him to realize he was in love with her, too.

“Not all girls are so forward as me,” she joked.  “I was not very…”  The word, something starting with an S, was on the tip of her tongue, though the harder she tried to remember it the further it retreated.  Eventually she gave up and used the Slovak word: “ _Jemný_.”

She watched him repeat the word to himself before offering, “Subtle?”

“That’s it!  Yes, I was not very subtle about liking you.”  She squeezed his hand.

“I got no complaints.  And I’ve never been subtle about likin’ you, either.”  Most days this kind of talk would fan that glowing ember into desire, and kisses would interrupt their conversation.  Tonight they simply smiled at each other.

“Maybe Judith should try being more obvious.”

“I don’t know how much more obvious he needs her to be,” Roman sighed.  “Anyway, he was takin’ so long that I said I’d help.  I was really just gonna snatch up his notebook so he’d quit lookin’ at it, but I got interested in what he was writin’ about.”  He looked sheepish, though whether it was at his interest or the plan that preceded it she didn’t know.  “I showed him a couple o’ mistakes he’d made—it was just notes, so they weren’t a big deal, an’ he would’ve fixed ’em before the story got printed.  But he fixed ’em right away, an’ then he told me to meet him at the  _Sun_  building after I got off work.

“He didn’t say why, but I went back to the boardinghouse, got all dressed up—”  With his free hand he indicated the tie and clean shirt he wore.  “—an’ went down there.  I…  The last time I really looked at those buildin’s was durin’ the strike, ya know?  We used to talk about how Pulitzer, Hearst, all the owners were up there in their offices drinkin’ champagne an’ lookin’ down on us.  I’d already been worryin’ all day about why Dave wanted me to go there; by the time I got there I was sure they were gonna throw me out as soon as I walked in.”  He let a humorless chuckle.  “Then I figured some cop’d tell me to move along if I kept standin’ there, so I pretended like I was Jack and went in.

“Luckily Davey was waitin’ for me downstairs.  I was thinkin’ he’d explain what the he—what was goin’ on, why I was there, but he just went chargin’ up the stairs ’til we got to a big room full o’ desks where guys were all writin’.  I asked where Dave’s desk was an’ he said not here, this was the editorial department, an’ we were gonna talk to one o’ editors.  So we went into an office where there was this little bald guy with glasses, Mr. MacPherson, an’ Dave told him I was the guy he was talkin’ about.  So this Mr. MacPherson says hello an’ then slides a piece o’ paper across his desk—actually it was a couple o’ pieces, all handwritten in awful writing.  I just looked at it for a minute ’cause I still wasn’t sure what I was doin’ there—I mean, I had an idea, but I didn’t want to be wrong an’ have this guy laugh at me.”  His hand tightened around hers.  “So I looked at Dave and he smiled an’ nodded an’ said, ‘Fix it.’  There was a red pencil on the desk, too, so I grabbed that an’ the papers an’ started readin’.  Then that Mr. MacPherson says I can sit down, so I do an’ keep workin’ on the papers.  Readin’ that handwriting was the worst part at first, but I figured that was part o’ the test.  Dave an’ Mr. MacPherson kept talkin’ while I worked, but that was probably part o’ the test, too, an’ it didn’t bother me none.  I mean, I was worried about if I wasn’t goin’ fast enough, or if I was goin’ too fast an’ was gonna miss somethin’, but I finished up an’ read it all again an’ I thought it sounded better than before, so I gave it back to Mr. MacPherson.  He looked at it an’ asked me a couple o’ things, why did I change some stuff the way I did, and I tried to explain but for some of it I ended up just sayin’ ‘Because that’s how it ought to be.’”  He scratched his jaw with his free hand, and a frown crept onto his face as he continued.

“Then MacPherson put the papers down an’ looked at me over the top of his glasses an’ asked about how I did in school an’ when I graduated.  I said I did okay when I was goin’ but I didn’t ever graduate.  I think Dave could tell I was gettin’ kind o’ annoyed because he jumped in an’ said I was quick an’ incisive an’ confident—which I wasn’t feelin’ right then—an’ that I have a good understandin’ of literature, and he asked had I made any mistakes editing the article he gave me.  MacPherson said well, there was this an’ that that should’ve been changed, so now I was feelin’ annoyed  _and_  dumb, but Dave—you could tell he was gettin’ fired up, too, ’cause his eyes were narrowed an’ his nostrils were flared, but he stayed cool an’ said, ‘Those things are house style.  He’ll learn that in no time.’  That was…  It was nice o’ Dave to say that, ya know?  And he wouldn’t’ve said it unless he meant it.  It made me feel more confident, knowin’ Dave thinks I’m good enough to do this.”

She nodded, not wanting to interrupt the story with her own reassurances.  He was much smarter than she was, so of course she’d tell him so; but having someone like David, who’d gone to school and was known for his brains, affirm and defend Roman’s intelligence had to be gratifying.  Hana would have to thank him the next time she saw him.

His expression lightened again, the furrows in his brow smoothing.  “I’m wonderin’ what’s next, what other kind o’ tricks I’m gonna have to do, when somebody knocks on the door and in walks Denton.  He said hello and his eyes were kind o’ twinklin’, I think ’cause he’d never known my real name before an’ Dave must’ve told him what it was.  But we shook hands and I told him it was nice to see him.  Mr. MacPherson handed over the story I’d gone over an’ Denton flips through it, noddin’ the whole time.  ‘He’ll pick up the shorthand easily enough,’ he says, ’cause there’s all these symbols you can use to show what things are written wrong, an’ they’re quicker than writin’ out words the way I’d done.  So Mr. MacPherson asks Denton if he can vouch for me.  Like I wasn’t annoyed enough at this fella already.  But Denton’s calm an’ says that Dave’s the one who brought me in, so it’s his word that should matter—we could all tell that MacPherson didn’t think much o’ that—but then Denton says he’s known me for several years an’ would be happy to vouch for me.”

Roman paused to take a deep breath, a pause that made Hana sure his story was reaching its climax.  A shiver ran between her shoulder blades; she clasped his hand tighter between hers.

“So Mr. MacPherson shrugged an’ said the newspaper business is all about speed and accuracy, an’ the  _Sun_  has high standards, and I’ll have a week to prove I can keep up, an’ I start on Monday.”

His smile was small and unsure as the words sunk in.  When at last they did she gasped.  “It is a job.”

“Yeah.”  His smile crept wider.  “Like I said, I still gotta learn all the symbols—Denton let me borrow some books I gotta study.”  He gestured with his chin to the table, where a stack of books sat; she hadn’t noticed them earlier.  “An’ Dave said he’ll help me however he can.  But I can’t mess this up, ’cause if I do it’s gonna cause problems for both o’ them, too.”  He looked worried again, his mouth turned down, his eyes shadowed.  

Hana shook her head.  She raised a hand to cup his cheek; Roman met her gaze and the tension around his mouth eased.  He leaned into her touch and the weight of his head made her thankful that she was there to help bear his burdens. 

“You will do a wonderful job,  _moja láska_ ,” she said.  “You have nothing to worry about.  David and Mr. Denton believe in you, and by the end of the week Mr. MacPherson will too.  And you know what?”  She stroked her thumb over his cheek, his brow. 

“What?”  Now there was a smile in his voice. 

She leaned forward to confide, “I believe in you, too.”

He beamed.  “ _Miláčku_ ,” he breathed, his eyes dropping closed for a moment.  When he opened his eyes again they were alight with determination, as well as love.  “I couldn’t do it without you.  Without you I’d have no reason to.  Thank you, Hanka.”  He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers and she was filled with pride and hope and blessed peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si to ty = Is that you  
> Jemný = subtle  
> moja láska = my love  
> Miláčku = sweetheart


	139. (Modern?) Matchmaker AU

The (modern?) matchmaker AU

  * Judith and David already know each other and are interested in each other, but are still “just friends”
  * Both of their moms have mentioned the idea of meeting with a matchmaker before
  * Isabela has brought it up in conversation pretty naturally, when talking about couples that they know; she only explicitly suggests once that Judith meet with the matchmaker
    * Judith doesn’t totally hate the idea.  Yeah, the last time she got set up was a disaster, but this would be different.  The matchmaker would do research and ask her questions and be invested in not failing to find a good match for her.  She’s not just going to throw a guy at Judith and expect everything to work out.
  * Esther does not have Isabela’s chill.  David is focused on his career, and that’s good!  But she wishes that he would meet a nice young lady. 
    * If he refuses to take things further with Judith, even though there’s something there, Esther isn’t going to push him to. 
    * She will, however, talk up the matchmaker until he snaps
  * He agrees mostly to appease his mother and a little out of curiosity about the whole process
  * Talking to Sarah about it:  
Sarah: “The worst that could happen is you meet someone new.  That’s never a bad thing.”  
Dave: “Sure.  Maybe this time instead of starting a strike my new friend will just want me to overthrow the government.”  
Sarah: “That would be a great way to make a lasting connection.”
  * Neither Judith nor Dave tell the other about meeting with a matchmaker
    * (Of course they both just so happen to meet with the same one)
  * Keeping something like this from David feels wrong to Judith, but she knows it would be painfully awkward to discuss it with him
  * When they meet with the matchmaker, she asks them how they would describe themselves, what they’re looking for in a relationship, their goals, what they absolutely don’t want, and then:
  * Split-screen to her asking them to describe their ideal partner
    * (Listen my understanding of matchmaking is mostly based on “[The Matchmaker](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DPhTjYefSkuc&t=OTIwMDliNDE5NzgxOGZjYTQzNGE2ZjUyNDRhMjUzNWNjZGQ0ZjZhZixpSTl2WTdvVg%3D%3D&b=t%3AbMGtddyzh8tj9J4xywiaCA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fpandolfo-malatesta.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F182514880515%2Fthe-modern-matchmaker-aumore-judith-and&m=1)”
      * A cursory search for info has yielded this quote from  _Love for Sale: Courting, Treating, and Prostitution in New York City, 1900-1945_  by Elizabeth Alice Clement: 
        * As one matchmaker lamented in an interview with the  _New York Tribune_  in 1898, “most marriageable men and women in the quarter depended on me to make them happy.  Now they believe in love and all that rot.  They are making their own marriages.”  
      * Clement also quotes a woman named Ella Safransky, who said of what she brought to her husband in marriage that “the only dowry I gave is that I worked with him hand in hand.”)
    * Judith tries not to describe David specifically, instead listing all the things she likes about him as generally as she can.  In the moment Dave is probably surprised that he has all these concrete ideas about what his potential partner should be like, and only realizes when he’s thinking about it later that huh, that sounds an awful lot like Judith, that’s weird
  * The matchmaker has to stall for a couple of days because it’s obvious that these two are describing each other and people think they’re not getting their money’s worth if the search is over too quickly
  * In the meantime, Dave has told Judith about his initial interview.  It was a little interesting, he says, but he doesn’t think he’ll go through with a meeting.  
“Why not?”  Judith is relieved, but still curious.  
He shrugs.  “I don’t see how somebody could know me well enough after half an hour to know who my perfect girl would be.”  
“Isn’t that why you should go?  To meet the girl?”   _What are you saying shut **up** Judith._  “That’s really the only way to judge how good the whole process is, by going through with at least one date.”   _I hate you.  
_“Did my mother put you up to this?” he demands, eyes twinkling.  “Alright, one date, just to see it through.  But that’s it.”
    * Judith does not confess to David in return, because the timing is too bizarre to believe
  * The matchmaker gets in touch with them a day or two later to set up the date.  She refuses to reveal their date’s name to either of them; this intrigues Dave, but Judith is worried.  The matchmaker tells them they’ll recognize the other because they’ll be carrying a particular flower–say a yellow rose, something that it’s unlikely for a lot of people to be toting around.
  * STRESS
  * Judith goes into the shop to buy a new dress and ends up spilling everything to Pauline, who convinces her  _not_  to buy a new dress, but that she’ll be okay, this guy will definitely  _not_  hate her on sight, she’ll be fine, please come back ASAP and tell her how it went
  * The date arrives!  Judith almost doesn’t go.  But after forcing David into accepting his date, she figures she has no excuse not to go to hers.
  * He’s already waiting at the café.  Upon seeing him she drops the flower, then snatches it up before marching over to him and demanding to know what’s going on.
  * “What are you doing here?” “Waiting for my date.  What are  _you_  doing here?” “MEETING MY DATE”
    * Oops now she has to confess that she agreed to visit the matchmaker too
  * David starts chuckling.  Judith is still flustered enough that she has no idea what he could find so funny, and snaps at him to explain.
  * He stands up and takes her hand.  “Is it really so crazy that we were paired up?”  
She looks up from their hands to his face, his expression hopeful and a little uncertain.  “I suppose not,” she says, smiling a little.  “Especially since I all but described you to her.”  
“Yeah?  I might’ve done the same thing.”  They smile at each other a moment longer, blushing, their eyes flitting away but always returning to the other’s.  Then he drops her hand and steps back.  “We should do this the right way.  Follow through with the process.”  He nods at the flower forgotten in her hand, then lifts his own.  “I think you’re my date, miss.  David Jacobs.”  He offers his hand.   
“Yes.  And I’m Judith Cook.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
  * They’re a perfect match. 




	140. Advice (1 February 1906)

Only in New York City could a shopkeeper make you feel you’d already wasted half the day when you came into his store only a few minutes after eight in the morning.  She felt his disapproval as she gathered a bottle of ink, a few of the pencils Mother liked, and a receipt book; it didn’t stop her from taking a minute to study a set of colored pencils before she paid for her items.  The shopkeeper’s doleful expression didn’t lighten even when she handed over the cash and stowed her purchases in her sack.

Then it was back on the sidewalk and turned toward the studio, while her thoughts returned to where they’d been the whole time she’d been about her errands.  Maybe she should write to one of those columnists who advised the lovelorn.  But what would she say?   _Dear madam, I am at an impasse.  Should I confess my feelings to the man I admire, though I would risk losing his friendship, or should I stay the course and enjoy what relationship I already have with him?_   Hardly groundbreaking stuff; those columnists must get hundreds of variations on the same question every year.  She couldn’t imagine the papers wasting their space on such a silly question.  Writing for professional advice was out, then.

Another kind of professional came to mind, one her mother had mentioned in passing a year or two ago.  There would be no harm in just meeting with a matchmaker.  Plenty of people used them and no one thought any worse of them for it.  They weren’t all hopeless cases like her, either; the couples she knew from temple who’d been introduced by a matchmaker had just been too busy to meet someone on their own, and had benefited from the matchmaker’s extensive network of contacts.  New York was full of Jewish men she hadn’t met yet; perhaps all she needed was a few introductions to find the right one.  And what would make him the right one?  He’d be someone who wasn’t interested in a stake in her father’s business, who wouldn’t demand that she stay home, who could look past her flaws to see her worth.  ( _You deserve more than being tolerated_ , his voice whispered in her mind, determined and impossible to ignore.)  It would be too much to ask for someone with keen eyes and insistent curiosity and a way of saying her name, the name only he called her, that made her breath catch.  The odds that you’d be matched with the person you were already stuck on couldn’t be good, not when compared to the sheer number of single men in the city.  Or so she assumed; she wasn’t sure how the whole thing worked.  What she was sure of was that reaching out to a matchmaker would mean giving up on him, and giving him up, and she wasn’t willing to do that yet.

Despite how absorbed she was in her thoughts, it was impossible to miss the woman in a white coat with a thick fur collar who swept past.  A satin scarf covered her head, but one curl had escaped and now nestled livid against the snowy fox fur.  The image was striking enough that Judith suspected it had not come about by accident.  That suspicion was proved correct when the woman called her name.

Judith turned to see Medda backtracking toward her.  “I thought it was you,” she said, smiling broadly.  She offered a gloved hand that Judith shook.  “And I’m glad I ran into you.  Do you have a minute?”

Judith glanced down at the bag she carried, full of nothing that wouldn’t keep, and then back up at Medda.  “Of course.”

“Great!”  With a grin, Medda slipped her arm through Judith’s and led her back the way she’d come half a block before turning down a narrow side street.  They paused outside a metal door, where Medda drew a key from inside her coat, slid it in the lock, and pulled the door open.  Medda ushered her in and Judith stepped into a dim hallway.

It took a minute of walking down a corridor devoid of any decoration for Judith to realize that they must have been backstage at Irving Hall.  It was as unlike the front of the theater as a place could be: there was no sign of glamour, no gilt or velvet or paint, and the door that Medda next unlocked was stout and unadorned.  It opened into an office, desk and filing cabinet and all, that could have been in any business anywhere in the city.  

“I need more prints of some of the photographs,” Medda explained, rounding the desk and sweeping aside a sheaf of papers to reveal a brief list.  “We’re running low.  I knew they’d be a hit.”  She flashed a grin before bringing the paper close to her nose for a second, then handing it across to Judith.  “How’s your coloring?”

Glancing over the list—apparently the theater had sold out of the portraits of Medda herself and of her dancing girls; hardly a surprise there—she forgot to demur, instead answering truthfully, if distractedly, “Very good.”

Medda’s chuckle was full-throated.  “That’s what I like to hear,” she said, “confidence.  This time give me half black and white and half colored.”

“It’ll be almost twice as much for the tinted prints,” Judith warned. 

“Then we’ll charge twice as much.”  The ease with which she accepted the additional cost was echoed by a languid shrug.  But then she went on, “I’ve seen color pictures before, though—not just illustrations, but stuff that looks like it was taken from life.  Why keep tinting by hand if that’s an option?”

Judith thought for a moment before answering, in the hopes that she could keep her response from becoming too technical.  “You’re right that illustrations can be printed in color via the lithographic process.  And there is a method of producing a color print from a black-and-white negative.  You’ve heard of photochroms?”  Medda nodded.  “That’s what that is.  I don’t know the complete process, but the photo negative is transferred to a lithograph plate, or series of them, I suppose, one for each color.  Then it’s printed.”  She shrugged in admission of her ignorance.  “The bottom line, at least for me, is that the end result is not a photograph, but a print.  The advantage is that it’s possible to make far more photochroms in a far shorter time than it is to develop and hand tint true photographs.  If you want to go that route, Till & Cook couldn’t do the printing ourselves, but we could likely arrange to have everything set up.”  Suggesting it made her feel a little sick; it would mean a lower profit for the studio.  She wasn’t about to lie about it, though. 

Medda considered this for only a second.  “Nah,” she said, waving a hand to dismiss the idea.  “We’ll stick with the photos for now.  They may be more expensive, but they’re classier than those cheap postcards you get at some of the other theaters.”  Judith nodded, a wave of relief rushing through her.

“That’s it for the reorders.  In terms of new photos, I’d like one of the marquee lit up at night.  You can do that, right?”

Even if she didn’t already have the ability, she would learn if it meant justifying Medda’s faith in her skill.  “Yes.  That will depend on the weather, of course, but let’s plan for…”  Her evening schedule was wide open, of course, and it was still dark early enough that she wouldn’t have to stay out too late.  But she’d ask Les to come along and help anyway; having a young man along would deter troublemakers, she hoped.  The new moon had just passed—not that that made much of a difference in New York—and she didn’t think Medda would want to wait until the end of the month.  “Monday night.  Weather permitting, I’ll bring you a proof by the end of the week.”

“Fine.”  That seemed to conclude their business; Judith tucked the list away and Medda ushered her out of the office.  Once the door was locked behind her she said, “Now, how about some tea before you go back out there?  Something to keep you warm on your walk.”

The prospect of staying indoors a little longer beckoned.  As long as she didn’t stay too long, it would be fine.  “Thank you,” she said, “I’d like that.”

It was a very short walk from the room they’d just left to their next destination, a little sitting room complete with sink and fainting couch.  Through a side door she glimpsed an explosion of tulle and the glint of sequins, and guessed that that was Medda’s dressing room.  Medda told her to make herself comfortable, and she chose a chintz-covered armchair, delightfully incongruous with so much glamour lurking nearby.  As her hostess filled a kettle Judith considered: as the owner of a theater that employed several young ladies in various positions, Medda had to have at least a passing knowledge of affairs of the heart.  This situation must be child’s play compared to what Judith could only imagine happened backstage between performers.  If anyone was qualified to give advice, it had to be Medda.

As Medda handed her a teacup Judith said, “May I ask you a question?  Something of a personal nature,” she warned, before adding, “But not about you; personal as in not professional.  Very not professional at all, at the moment.”

“Sure.”  Medda settled in another armchair and blew on her tea. 

Judith waited until she’d taken a sip and swallowed before she spoke.  Besides, after that initial burst of impulsiveness, she didn’t know how to proceed.  If she couched the question like she was asking on someone else’s behalf, that would spare her some embarrassment. 

“I have a friend,” she began, slowly enough that she did not miss the upward twitch of Medda’s eyebrows, the tiny sigh into her tea.  Alright, it was cowardly to pretend that this was about someone else; and the prospect of hiding for a moment longer, and of disappointing Medda, was distasteful.  A change of tack was called for.  She met the other woman’s eye as she went on.

“Someone I respect, and admire, and look forward to seeing every day.”

Medda’s face softened.  Like this, and away from the lights of the stage, she looked so much more human.  Here she looked like a person Judith could confide in.  That helped her to carry on.

“He…  He’s come to mean a lot to me—too much, I’m afraid sometimes.  I would hate to lose his friendship, but I want…”

She’d never said it aloud—how could she, when she had barely admitted it to herself?  And who would listen to her, without making her want to die of mortification?  Mr. Till would tease; Pauline would squeal.  Mother would ask too many questions, while Papa’s eyes would go guarded and sorrowful.  Roman couldn’t possibly understand how she felt, not when he was so blissfully in love himself.  For that matter, she doubted Medda would understand an affection going unrequited.  A woman like her, confident and charismatic and strong, had only to snap her fingers to have any man she pleased…or so Judith assumed.

But there she was, looking very much as if she cared, and Judith remembered the melancholy in her eyes when she’d hugged Jack.  Even if she had never been in Judith’s shoes, Medda would listen.  What came after that Judith couldn’t say; that was the risk she would have to take.

And it would be a risk to tell someone how she felt.  There were those who thought that a homely old maid had no right to want tenderness, to crave soft words and warm glances and gentle touches.  It was foolish enough to want such things, and infinitely more foolish to admit to them, to make herself an object of ridicule.

Medda waited with a patience Judith imagined didn’t come easily.  She twisted the ring on her right hand.  “I’d like for him to be my sweetheart, as well as my friend.”

A smile flashed across Medda’s face, there and gone like a lightning strike and just as blinding.  The dazzle still lit her eyes as she asked, “So what’s stopping you?”

Expecting something more sympathetic, if not pitying, she hadn’t been prepared for opposition.  Judith snorted.  “What’s stopping me?” she asked, her voice far louder now than it had been before.  It should be obvious—but maybe to someone like Medda it wasn’t.  “I have no idea how he feels—”

“I bet you do.”

“I know how I  _want_  him to feel.  Sometimes I’m almost convinced that he does feel that way, at least a little.  But I can’t be so foolish as to believe it without knowing for sure.”

Medda shrugged.  “So ask.  What’s the worst that could happen?”

She had had this conversation before, alone with her thoughts.  The questions were much more infuriating when they came from another person, one who was sipping tea calmly while Judith grew angrier.  “He could be repulsed.  He could laugh, or never want to see me again.”  The consequences were so obvious, and Medda was taking them so lightly.

“Do you really believe he’d do that?  You know this young man; do you think he’d be so callous?”

 _No_ , she thought, weakening, bending beneath the certainty that David was not cruel, at least not on purpose.  But she was still too upset to give in.  “Experience has taught me the lengths a man will go to to avoid a relationship with me.”  The words came out brittle; his voice echoed in her head, reminding her that it was not her fault.

“One man hurts you and you write all of them off?”  Medda scoffed.  “You’ll give him that much power over you?”

Judith’s mouth had already opened to retort; now it hung wide as Medda’s point sank in.  For the better part of a decade her life had been ruled by Heitor’s misdeed.  What he’d done, or rather how she felt about it, had kept her hiding away.  Since she was 17 she’d been afraid: of being further humiliated, of losing yet more family members, of being thought inferior, of getting hurt.  That was because of him—if not entirely, then largely.  She’d let him influence her life for years.  If he, wherever he was now, knew how long she’d cowered, he’d likely laugh.  Well, no more.  She shut her mouth with a click of her teeth.

Medda took advantage of her speechlessness to press on.  “If you care so much about this gentleman now, whoever he may be, then you must know him well enough to know how he’d treat you.  Would you like him so much if you thought he could be mean?”  Judith shook her head.  “Men can be unpredictable—we all can, but men would like us to believe that they’re all stoic and steady, when really they can be just as moody as anyone else.  But trust is important in a relationship.  If you don’t think you can trust him, I wouldn’t waste any more time on him.  But more than that, you have to trust yourself, Judith.  As an artist, as a business owner, and as a woman.”

She took this in in silence.  Him she trusted—even with her ugliest secret.  He’d listened to her and challenged her but hadn’t betrayed her, and she was confident that he never would.  Of herself she could not be so sure.

Except that she had, until recently, been devoted to the studio, willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure its success.  And no matter what or who was distracting her, she was never prone to second-guessing herself when she stepped behind the camera or into the darkroom.  Those things came naturally to her now, though they hadn’t always; she realized they had only become habit through repetition.  Perhaps with practice she could be more sure of herself, more confident. 

She peered down into her cup.  “It sounds…well, not easy, but at least less fraught than it feels.”  A memory of Sarah and Jack moving in sync surfaced in her mind.  Their relationship struck her as effortless. 

“Things rarely feel as easy while you’re living them as they look from the outside.  You can’t judge your progress based on someone else’s life.  Not in love, not in your career, not in anything.  And, dear, it’s dangerous to assume you know what’s going on with anyone behind closed doors if you only see how they act in public.  Remember, some of us are performers.”  She raised one arm as if calling for applause from an unseen audience.  Judith laughed under her breath.

“Alright,” she conceded.

“Some things in life are easier for pretty girls.”   _Some things?_  Judith wondered; though she didn’t interrupt she couldn’t suppress a soft snort.  “That doesn’t mean you’ve got nothing to work with.  You know you’ve got eyes to die for, and when you’re not so self-conscious, you move like a queen.  Like it or not, you’ve got the kind of presence people spend years trying to develop.”

As if the compliments—no mere flattery, they were delivered as simple statements of truth—weren’t enough to make her cheeks warm, the last one had echoed what he said that night.  The memory of his murmur, his attention brought goosebumps out on her arms and a flush to her face.  It was not, she feared, a blush that could be ignored, or explained away.  “He…”  She cleared her throat delicately.  “He said something very similar.”

“Then he’s a smart man.”  

Face still crimson she said, “He is.  How someone so smart could fail to notice how…besotted I am with him, I just don’t know.”  She shrugged her shoulders up and sighed them down.

“Believe me, lots of men don’t notice until you make them.  And before you ask, no, I’m not suggesting that you make him.”

“I wouldn’t begin to know how.”

“A kiss usually does the trick.”  Her face flamed again and Medda laughed, though not unkindly.  Imagine being bold enough to kiss David!  

Well, she had imagined it a time or two.  But though the Judith of her daydreams was not afraid to make the first move, usually she imagined David kissing her first: taking her face in his hands, rough fingertips gentle on her skin as he murmured her name.  His lips would taste like coffee.  Her breath hitched.  Just thinking about it was almost too much.  At this rate she’d be lucky to survive holding his hand, let alone kissing him. 

Medda’s mirth calmed as she looked at Judith.  Setting her cup down she leaned forward; as if drawn by a thread Judith did the same.  The older woman’s gaze was direct, with none of the pity Judith so despised, only concern and a warmth Judith wasn’t sure their brief acquaintance warranted. 

“I can’t decide for you whether or not you should tell him how you feel,” she said.  “That’s something you have to figure out without worrying about what anyone else thinks.  The only opinions that matter in this case are yours and his.  And I wish I could, but I can’t promise everything will be fine.  All I can tell you is that being with the right man is worth it.  The good times, being by his side and in his arms, are worth the doubt and the pain.”  Her face was even more somber now, her eyes shadowed with a sorrow that aged her.  It was the face of experience, and Judith couldn’t help but wonder who this man was she’d loved and how she’d lost him.  “I’d hate for you, either of you, to miss out on that happiness.”

Her words stayed with Judith for the rest of the day.  Maybe she wasn’t convinced yet, wasn’t ready to make any declaration to him; but she wasn’t quite so afraid of the idea anymore, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jack, whose idea Judith talking to Medda was.
> 
> JACK: MEDDA ALWAYS KNOWS WHAT TO SAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	141. Valentines on a Budget (16 February 1906)

After Calvin’s inability to abide by their agreement at Christmas they had had a serious talk. 

She’d tried to have a serious talk, at least.  It wasn’t easy when he was being so affectionate.

“I mean it, Calvin.  No gifts at Valentine’s Day.”

“I still say flowers are decorations.”  He kissed that spot below her earlobe that she usually found so pleasant, and while she felt an isolated tingling, she did not give in.  With a huff she pushed against his shoulder, gentle but firm, until he sat back.

“We’re supposed to be saving money for the future,” she reminded him, “hopefully our future.  And I know you want to do nice things for me—I want to do that for you, too—but we can’t spoil each other all of the time.”

“I know.  I just want to show you how much ya mean to me.”

“It doesn’t take money to be romantic, you know.  Kisses are free.”  She dipped her chin and peeked up at him through her lashes in a way that had often brought young men around to her point of view in the past.

His eyes remained stoically on hers, not even flitting to her lips.  “What kisses are is dangerous.  Especially on a day like Valentine’s Day.”

A more noble gentleman than Calvin did not exist in the city of New York, but he was still a man.  Whatever his baser desires were she didn’t know because he never gave in to them, always pulling away, reining them both in just when that delicious fluttering in her belly threatened to overcome her sense.  She was grateful for his self-control…mostly.  There were times when she wondered how bad it would be if they let themselves get carried away, just a little; but she would never admit it to him, out of embarrassment and fear of his disapproval.  She nodded.

“You need some kind o’ real present,” he went on. 

“No, I don’t.”

“Sure ya do.”

She drew back further, piqued at this estimation of her.  Did she come across as that materialistic?  “You just don’t think you can do it.”

“What, keep from buyin’ you a present?”

“Yes, because apparently that’s the only way I’ll believe you really care about me.”  She turned her face from him with a sniff.

For as long as she’d known him he’d been conscientious and thrifty, though, she recognized, less of the latter when it came to her.  Acting as if he didn’t spend most of his spare change and free time on her was perhaps a little petty—but for a good cause, in this case.  Besides, Roman courted Hana on less, and look how happy they were.

“I didn’t mean that, an’ you don’t believe it.  And I don’t believe that I’m really not supposed to get you a present.”

“You’re not supposed to  _buy_  me a present.”

“Aha.  See, a minute ago it was no presents, but now it’s no present I have to pay for.  Which is it?”  He crossed his arms.

“I—”  She chewed her bottom lip for a moment, repeating the conversation they’d just had.  He was right, which wouldn’t be so bad by itself; but the realization of how fickle and grasping she was being was unwelcome, to say the least.  She shifted in her seat for a moment, then threw up her hands in surrender.  “Oh, I don’t care.  Do whatever you want.”  Then she, too, crossed her arms in front of her.  Her lower lip jutted out in a pout, and though she knew how appealing it looked—she’d perfected the expression in the mirror—that was neither her concern nor her intent now. 

“I will.  I’ll give you the best valentine you’ve ever had, an’ it won’t cost me a dime,” he declared, already triumphant.

“If you insist.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you, my darling, are equal to the challenge.”

“Glad you think so.”  Funny, he didn’t sound at all glad.  “What about you?  Think you can get me somethin’ nice without breakin’ open your piggy bank?”

“Of course.”  But while her tone was smug and her expression matched, doubt crept in to her mind.

The problem, she mused later, was that unless it had to do with clothing, she just wasn’t that creative.  Coming up with an idea for what to give him was dreadfully hard.  Last year she’d made him a cake, and he’d appreciated the gesture; but was buying ingredients the same as buying a gift?  She wasn’t about to ask, not after it had taken so much arguing to agree on the simplest of terms.  Besides, as much as the homemade dessert had meant to him, she couldn’t just do the same thing again. 

The only other option seemed to be making him a card, or writing a letter.  For all that she loved stories, though, she wasn’t very good with words, and her spelling had been erratic on occasion.  It would be fair to send him a poem someone else had written, as long as it embodied her feelings for him; he’d done the same thing last year.  So she’d flipped through her big collection of poetry looking for the perfect verses to copy out for him, only to be disappointed.

Why were so many poets men?  Everything was my Molly this and her shining eyes that.  Molly was probably too busy feeding her poet (or her livestock, as shepherdesses and milkmaids were in no short supply) to scribble down any verses that came to mind.  When Pauline slowed down to read the index more carefully the few female names leapt out; Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s verse was too intense ( _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach_ —she wasn’t sure that was true, and not knowing one way or the other scared her); Christina Rossetti’s opened with two quotes in another language that Pauline had no idea whether or not she had to include, and certainly couldn’t understand.  Other women’s poetry lamented how their love had gone away, off to war or in search of fortune; that, she thought smugly, was not something she had to deal with.  If only it were easier to write verse!  All of her rhymes were childish and plodding, with none of the soaring majesty, the wonder and triumph and comfort she wanted to convey.   _Oh Calvin you have won my heart / and I pray that we will never part_  was the best she’d been able to come up with.  It said nothing about his good qualities, only about her own feelings, and that was backwards.  An ode to Calvin would be about how chivalrous he was, how thoughtful and steadfast, how intelligent and well-mannered and self-controlled.  It would mention how handsome he was, of course—if the men’s poems spent several lines on their ladies’ flowing hair and swan-like necks, hers could mention his strong profile and elegant hands—but it should be more about how  _good_  he was, the faithful friend and ambitious employee and doting sweetheart.  She couldn’t think of any rhymes that didn’t cheapen all of that.  She shut the volume of poetry and dropped her forehead onto it with a groan.

If she could ever come up with something to say, the valentine would at least look pretty.  Emma and the other girls had been chatting about the upcoming holiday at work as Pauline mused on what to do; as she’d folded waists between customers she’d half listened to their conversation.  It turned from what they planned for their young men this year to the treats they’d gotten and given while at school.  There were memories of paper hearts elaborately snipped until they looked like lace, enviable handwriting, and clever couplets.  Then Emma asked, “Did you know how to fold the locking ones?  I could never get those to work right.”

“Of course,” someone answered, but Pauline’s mind had already started whirring away.  She’d passed her fair share of notes in school, and though she usually hadn’t taken the trouble to do more than fold them in quarters, the greatest secrets of a schoolgirl’s heart had required security.  A friend had taught them how to fold a square of paper into a shape something like a quilt star, whose rays would then be tucked together to form a snug little package.  When one of them landed in your lap you knew a revelation waited within; even now she could feel the ghost of the excitement that came with sliding her finger beneath one of the flaps, gently prising it free.  Calvin probably hadn’t had the same experience—boys had never seemed to pass notes as often as the girls had—but she didn’t doubt that he would glean the significance of such a missive.

A few sheets of cheap paper had to be sacrificed before she remembered every fold and crease.  Then she practiced sketching ornaments, bouquets and bows and hearts, and even one chubby Cupid, until at last she felt ready.  She dug out the old colored pencils she hadn’t used in years, and then pulled a piece of pristine ivory writing paper from her stash.  The words she’d written out ahead of time were nearby; her hands were clean and steady; she had plenty of light to work by and enough time to finish her task.  Her hands were slow to reach for the paper, though, to make the first fold when she knew that he deserved more than this.  He deserved far more princely gifts than a simple letter, heartfelt though it may be.

With the encouragement of a single word Pauline’s mind wandered, off to a place where Calvin was a true prince and she his lady love, a place where a message of devotion would have to be kept secret.  Finally inspired, she set to work.

Father admitted Calvin when he knocked on the door after dinner; Pauline was still pressing her skirt for work the next day, so the two men chatted for a few minutes until she’d finished and hung the skirt in the wardrobe.  When she joined them, slipping her hand into Calvin’s, her father made himself scarce.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” Calvin said once they were alone.  He leaned down to press a kiss to her waiting lips.  “Did ya have a good day?”

“Busy, but it made the time fly.  How about you?”

“About the same.  You look lovely.”  He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers; the eyes that met hers were beginning to smolder.  This time she would be the one with self-control.  She stepped back.  Maturity might be virtuous, but at the moment it was also unsatisfying.

“Are you ready for your present?”  It was tucked in her sash; without thinking she pressed her hand against it.

He let her hand go and turned to face her.  “Are you ready for yours?”  One hand moved stealthily toward his back pocket.  They stood for a moment like that, each reaching for something, like bandits about to draw their weapons.  He moved first.

“Normally I’d let you go first, but this won’t take long.“  He revealed what he held: a piece of pink paper, folded down the middle.  When she opened it it became a heart, with the words  _Sunday, 2 PM (weather permitting)_  written in the middle.  At her curious look he explained, “There isn’t enough time for the whole thing today.”

“It’s a whole thing?  How intriguing.  Can I have a hint what it is?”

He grinned.  “Nope.”

“Oh, fine.  Thank you anyway.”  She popped up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.  Then she ushered him to a seat and perched on the cushion next to him.  “I’m afraid this will be anticlimactic, but…”  She pulled the letter from her sash and handed it to him.

Calvin turned it over in his hands, a faint smile playing on his lips as he noted the back, where she’d intertwined their initials and topped them with a crown.   As he lifted every flap he took the time to study it, to discover each turtledove and wreath of laurel and arrow-pierced heart.

Before long he reached the message in the center.  As he read she waited, hardly daring to breathe.

_My darling Calvin,_  
No poet has written the words that best say how I feel for you.  So you’ll have to make do with my own words, and forgive their clumsiness in favor of their sincerity.  
I am so lucky just to know you—and knowing you, how could I not love you?  You are a wonderful man, because you’re a reliable friend, a hard worker, and the dearest sweetheart I could wish for.  I’ve never felt so proud as I do when I’m by your side.  You inspire me to be a better person, stronger and humbler than I am by nature.  I know your parents would be proud of the upstanding man you are, the man I admire so much.  
Thank you for choosing me.  I’m grateful for every day we’ve spent together, and I look forward to all the days we have to come.  
With affection and thanks and joy and all of my love,  
Your Paulie

When his breath caught she was sure he’d reached the mention of his parents.  He turned to her with a murmur of thanks and a kiss brushed against her cheek; before he spoke he read the message again.  Though the words weren’t entirely what she’d expected, she treasured them nonetheless.

“They would love you,” he said.  “They’d like your spunk, and your sophistication, and your freckles.”  She wrinkled her nose, a grimace he mirrored back at her in teasing.  Then his expression softened, and his voice went almost unbearably gentle.  “But they’d love how happy you make their son.”

She swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat.  “There’s nothing I want more than for you to be happy.”  It was true, she knew in that moment—no material thing could fulfill her the way seeing him happy did.

“You’d like them, too,” he went on.  “My mother loved flowers, and my father made sure there were always some in the house for her.”  And Pauline had given him grief over bringing her flowers.  The stab of guilt she felt was doubly painful when she saw his sad smile.  She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, aware that what solace she could offer would do little to help a pain she couldn’t imagine.

* * *

Sunday after church he declined lunch with the family, saying he had something to take care of.  “Two o’clock, though,” he reminded her, and squeezed her hand as she nodded.

So it was a surprise when she opened the door at that hour to find Hana on the other side.  “Hello, dear,” she said.  As Hana replied she peeked around her, looking down the hall; there was no sign of him, and it wasn’t like him to be late.  

When she looked back at her friend Hana was smiling indulgently.  “This is for you,” she said, presenting a folded note.

“What is this?”  Hana’s smile grew enigmatic, or as near as it could for someone so honest, so Pauline opened the note.  A frame was drawn around the edge of the paper, decorated with filigreed swirls; in the center of the small page, written in Calvin’s neat cursive, were the words  _I picture you and me together every day_.  She flipped the paper over: the reverse was blank.

“‘I picture you and me together every day,’” she read aloud.  It was sweet, but she felt she was missing something.  And why had he drawn a picture frame, but no picture?  Unless… 

“Judith’s studio!  Is he there?  Am I supposed to meet him?”  She didn’t wait for Hana to answer before she touched her hair and wondered, “Should I change?”

“No.”  Though Hana’s answer was firm, Pauline was still tempted to argue; she certainly wasn’t fit to be photographed in this dress, nice as it was.  And Hana, sweet though she was, wasn’t quite as good a judge of appearance as Pauline herself was.

“Are you sure?  It would only take a minute…”  

Hana chuckled at the fib, and Pauline smiled.  “I am sure.  You look beautiful, just like always.  But you will need your coat.”

Pauline nodded and then rushed inside, hurrying to do up her boots and pulling on her coat.  She didn’t complain when Hana wound a scarf around her neck, though it didn’t match her dress.  The two went back out into the hall; after she’d shut the door behind them Pauline opened it again to call, “I’m stepping out for a little while.”

“Alright,” came her father’s voice.  Daughterly duty fulfilled, Pauline closed the door again.

Hana was not dressed for the outdoors.  “Are you coming?” Pauline asked her.  Anticipation had begun to build in her; it would be nice to share whatever was to come with her dear friend.

She shook her head.  “I am just a messenger.”

“You’re an angel.”  Pauline threw her arms out to give Hana a squeeze.  “And happy early birthday!”

“Thank you.  Now go!”

For a few blocks she fretted that she should have gone ahead and changed anyway.  But then she remembered that as portraits cost money, she would likely not be having one made today.  The thought sank her spirits briefly before excitement buoyed them again.  If not a sitting, what would Calvin have waiting for her in the studio?

She was almost breathless with a combination of haste, sharp winter air, and excitement by the time she reached Till & Cook.  The door opened as she reached for the handle and she let out a little yelp, then apologized to the older gentleman on the other side.  He held the door open for her and she slid in, looking around for Calvin.  A throat clearing at the desk caught her attention.  She looked over to see Judith, lips quirked in amusement.

“Hello, Judith,” she said, a little sheepishly.

“Pauline.”  The amusement became a full-blown smirk.  “What brings you here today?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen Calvin recently.”  The words spilled out too quickly for a casual inquiry; at least she’d tried to maintain some composure.

Judith’s smirk widened, though there was no malice in it.  “I have,” she said, and reached into a drawer at her right.  Her fingers reemerged holding another folded note, and Pauline’s heart leapt.  “He left this for you,” Judith said, handing it over, “but clearly you already knew that.”

Pauline managed to murmur a thank you before turning her attention to the note.  This one was bordered with little circles, each with a crescent drawn near its top edge, like a glint of light on glass.  Lightbulbs!  It was obvious when she read the message:  _You brighten my life more than all of the lights at Irving Hall ever could_.  She cooed.  If the rest of the notes were as sweet as the first two, he’d be in for one whopper of a kiss when she reached him.

She looked up to see Judith watching her.  “Calvin explained what he was doing,” Judith said, “but only generally.  I’ve been wondering all morning how you’d know to come here.”

Pauline certainly didn’t begrudge her the curiosity, especially not when it was related to her business.  She pulled the first note from her pocket and passed it across the desk.  “The clues have been easy so far,” she said.  “I hope they stay that way.”

The slyness had gone out of Judith’s expression, leaving her with a wistful smile as she read the note.  “How sweet.  You’re very lucky.”

“I am.”  Although she was eager to move on, something in Judith’s manner gave her pause.  She wanted to ask how Judith had fared over the holiday, whether she’d gotten any special valentines, the kind of gentle teasing you’d do with a friend; but there was a fragility to her demeanor that Pauline knew could shatter all too easily.  In the end she settled for asking, “Is everything alright?”

“With me?  I’m fine, thank you.”  Judith fixed an unconvincing smile on her face and returned the note.  “Where are you off to next?”

The question rekindled her enthusiasm.  “Irving Hall.  And I have a hunch I know who’ll be there.”

At that Judith’s smile grew more genuine.  “You’re probably right.  Good luck.”

If the next messenger was who she thought it was, she’d need it.  “Thank you.”  She turned to go, then paused to look back.  “Judith…”  It seemed silly to offer help to someone older and better established than she was; but, she hoped, it couldn’t hurt.  Judith’s eyebrows were raised as she waited.  “If you’d ever like to talk about anything, I’m just across the way.”

Surprise flashed across Judith’s face, followed by an expression that might have been fear, or doubt.  But then it settled into a smile that, while small and shy, was warm.  She didn’t say anything, only nodded, but Pauline went away feeling better for having offered.

Not even Kid Blink could ruin her afternoon.  She repeated this to herself as she rounded the corner and saw him loitering outside the theater.  Mercifully Mush was with him; he should be able to curb his friend’s antagonism.  She crept closer to the two, who huddled in their coats and shuffled their feet to keep warm.

“She better hurry up,” Blink said.  “I’m s’posed to meet a girl soon.  A girl I actually  _want_  to see.  One who never perpetrated physical violence against my person.”

“You don’t gotta stay here, ya know.  I can deliver the note myself.  If May’s waitin’ for ya you should go.”

“Nobody said anything about May,” Blink grumbled.

Mush went on as if he hadn’t said anything.  “She’s a nice girl.  ’Specially how she didn’t drop you when ya told her Gussie wasn’t really your sister.  It was nice o’ you to tell her the truth,” he said encouragingly.  Blink shrugged deeper into his jacket.

“Yeah, well.  Didn’t really have much choice, since it was gettin’ obvious that I don’t see the kid that often.”

“’M glad May’s still around, though.  She’s good for ya.”

She couldn’t see the face Blink doubtless pulled in response, but the shove he dealt to Mush’s shoulder was obvious.  “Earnin’ that nickname today, aren’t ya, Mush?”  Mush, grinning, shoved right back, and she figured she should step in before her clue was lost in a fistfight.

“Oh!  Gentlemen, hello!”  They turned as she hurried the last few steps toward them.  It didn’t take any effort to look eager.

“Hi, Shiv!” Mush greeted her, his grin bright as ever.  Blink, on the contrary, said nothing, merely eyed her head to toe, his mouth twisted in a smirk.  She fought the urge to stick out her tongue at him.

Mush brought one hand out of a pocket.  “Snoddy asked us to give this to ya.”

Beaming, she thanked him and took the note, moving quickly enough that Blink wouldn’t have a chance to snatch it away, but not so quickly that she looked desperate.  She wasn’t going to risk reading it in front of Blink, who still remained suspiciously silent.  “No smart remarks today?” she asked.

Blink shrugged one shoulder.  “We both got better things to do than stand around an’ argue.”

But he had stood around, in the cold no less, with his best friend as he fulfilled a promise.  Maybe he was a rascal; no one could say Kid Blink wasn’t a faithful friend.  “You’re right,” she said, meeting his eye and hoping he would see the understanding in her gaze.

“Aw, take your love note an’ get lost.”  He jerked his chin the direction she’d come; but the hard line of his mouth had softened.  Even so, she decided to take his advice before he changed his mind.

“Thank you again,” she said, starting off down the block.

“See ya!” Mush called; when she looked back to wave he was slinging his arm around Blink’s shoulders.  Blink did the same to him, and they moved down the sidewalk together.

She ducked into a doorway to read the note:  _Even Ranger must confess that I’m utterly smitten with you_.  Ranger, Calvin had once told her, knew more of his secrets that any other soul alive, because he could be trusted not to spill them.  The dog lived with Calvin in his boardinghouse room, but she knew he wouldn’t send her there.  She thought of the places they walked him together on fine days, wondering where he would have left a note.  On one of those walks they’d made their way uptown, past rows of finer houses than they could ever afford, and Pauline had remarked in jest that Ranger least of them all looked like he belonged in that neighborhood.  “Looks aren’t everythin’,” Calvin had said, and made them stop so Ranger could defend his honor by obeying every command and performing every trick he knew.  Now she started for Park Avenue, with the hope that an idea would come to her along the way.  Sure enough, before she reached that street she realized that the clue wouldn’t be there.  All Park Avenue represented was a dream—a dream they shared, of course, but nothing more yet.  The clue would be somewhere that had meaning to them now.  Where had she first met Ranger?  Under a tree in Central Park.  Her fingertips had been inches from Calvin’s as they ran their hands through Ranger’s fur, and her heart had skipped.  She hurried to catch a trolley for the park.

Ranger was waiting under that same tree.  He wagged his tail when he saw her, the movement redoubling when she bent to scratch his head.  “You’re not alone out here, are you?” she asked him.

“No,” came a girlishly gruff voice from the other side of the tree.  It was followed by shushing and a giggle.  Gussie peeked around the trunk and then emerged, followed by Andy.  “Hi!” she piped.

“Hey, Pauline.”

“Hello, you two.  Do you have something for me?”

Andy shook his head.  “Nah, but Ranger does.”  He pointed down at the dog’s collar.  Somehow she’d missed the note, this time rolled up and tied to Ranger’s collar with a lopsided bow.  She crouched to free the note, giving the dog a scratch under the chin before she rose; he licked her hand in return.  When she went to pocket the note, Gussie stopped her.

“What’s it say?”  As if Pauline didn’t know what she meant, Gussie pointed at her hand.

Andy pushed it down, though with relative gentleness.  “Remember what I said, Gus?  She don’t gotta tell us.”

“Yeah, but we waited here all this time!”  Gussie’s lower lip poked out and her eyes were pleading.

Pauline’s brow furrowed.  “Were you waiting long?”

Gussie nodded fervently.  Andy said, “Not really.  Just a couple o’ minutes.”  He was being remarkably patient and understanding—altogether too well-mannered for his usual self.  Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him for a moment, wondering where this bout of maturity had come from; then he caught her looking and gave her a split-second mischievous grin.

Well, Calvin hadn’t written anything inappropriate thus far, and he certainly wouldn’t have entrusted such a message to two children.  She slid the note from its string and unrolled it.  Her eyes darted over the message, just in case; finding it faultless she cleared her throat and read aloud, “‘I only speak the truth when I say how deeply I care for you.’”  Predictably, Andy rolled his eyes and Gussie squealed, grasping her mittened hands beneath her chin.

“That’s so sweet!” she sighed.  “So where do you gotta go now?”

_I only speak the truth_  had a familiar ring to it, but she couldn’t quite place it.  She’d seen the words somewhere, or heard them, and said so aloud.  Gussie’s face screwed up in a frown as she thought.  Andy’s expression, on the other hand, passed from thought to revelation in an instant: his eyes widened; the corners of his mouth lifted and stretched wide. 

“You know.”  He nodded.  “And you’re going to be kind and tell me?”  He shook his head.

“I’ll tell ya for a nickel.”

Of all the mercenary moves!  “A nickel?  But I’m not supposed to—”  She paused mid-sentence.  She hadn’t been supposed to spend any money on  _Calvin’s_  present, and she hadn’t.  This was hers.  They’d made no agreement about that. 

Still, she wasn’t ready to capitulate.  Knowing Calvin and knowing that he knew her, she was confident that she would figure it out.  “Never mind,” she told Andy, then reached down to pet Ranger once more.  “Thank you, boy.”  With that she turned and headed back the way she came.

It was little surprise that Gussie followed her; by the sound of their footsteps, Andy and Ranger weren’t far behind.  “Did ya figure it out?  Do ya know where you’re goin’?”

“Not exactly, but I will.”  They’d never done much north of the park besides walking, so south it was.

The truth: that was the key.  He was well-known among the newsboys for telling the truth, even when it was easier not to.  But what kind of place would the truth be important?  In church, of course, but it seemed unlikely that he would plant a clue for something so trivial as a scavenger hunt in a place that would so strongly suggest matrimony.  In a court, but she’d never been to one, certainly not with him.  The inkling that it had something to do with the newspaper business stayed with her as she strode down the street toward a trolley stop.  Maybe there was something in the square that would tell her—the statue of Greeley had words on it, but she couldn’t remember what they were—statues didn’t speak, of course, but newsies did, though they fibbed more often than not—

She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, whirling around with a swish of skirts.  Ranger swerved nimbly and came to a stop by her side, but Gussie collided with her hip and Andy nearly got tangled in Pauline’s skirt.  Planting her hands on her hips she glared at him.  “How often do you lie to sell papers?”

While Gussie looked guilty for a moment before rearranging her features into an affronted expression, Andy never wavered.  “It ain’t lyin’, it’s improvin’ the truth.”

“I suppose that’s my answer,” she said, half to herself.  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s wrong to lie?”  Even someone with no parents had to have some sort of moral compass guiding him. 

“Folks tell us all the time,” he retorted, and he was almost certainly about to add more when Gussie cut in, “There’s even a sign about it at their house!”

“Yes!  That’s where I remember those words from.  What does the sign say?”

“‘Speak the truth,’” Andy grumbled.  

Pauline threw back her head to crow in triumph.  Okay, so maybe she hadn’t worked out the clue completely on her own; but she’d been headed in the right direction, literally, and would have found out the answer before too long.  “Thank you,” she said, though without any noticeable gratitude.  “Are you coming with me?”

Gussie looked at Andy, who shook his head.  “I told Snoddy I’d take Ranger back to his place once ya found us,” he explained.  

“I’ll walk him with ya,” Gussie said.  At that show of devotion Pauline snickered, albeit quietly.  She wished them all a good afternoon and made her way back downtown to Duane Street.  

It was lighter than the last time she’d walked to the lodginghouse alone, and her quick pace now had less to do with fear for her safety and more with pleasant anticipation.  A few boys loitered near the corner, smoke from their cigarettes wreathing their heads.  The glances they sent her way were prolonged when instead of passing by the building she made her way to the door.  The lobby was warmer than outside but still empty; when she stepped up to the desk, though, a white-haired head appeared in the office beyond.  The man, Mr. Kloppman if she remembered right, squinted at her through his spectacles, then emerged from the office to peer into the pigeonholes that lined the wall behind the desk before plucking something from one of them.

She gave him a hopeful smile as he turned to study her.  His eyes narrowed; his demeanor was solemn.  It was obvious that he took the duty with which he’d been charged seriously.  “Are you Miss Pauline?  Snoddy’s girl?” he asked.  

Coming from him the term sounded charmingly quaint, enough to make her giggle.  She drew herself up to her full height and declared, “I am,” proud that she could say so.  Mr. Kloppman’s grave expression cracked into a smile, and he relinquished the note.  His task complete he retreated into the office; she called her thanks after him, receiving a wave in reply.

She opened the note in the relative warmth of the lobby.  Twining vines bordered the page; a single rosebud was sketched below the words  _It’s too early for moonlight, but I can’t wait to see you_.

She should have known all along where the notes would lead.  She hurried back toward her building, then all the way up to the roof.  By the time she reached it her heart felt full to bursting.

Calvin, a smile on his face, stood up from his perch on a crate as she climbed over the edge.  His cheeks and nose were pink with the cold, and he was dressed as nattily as if he were on his way to work.  She wanted so to be in his arms, felt she would die if she couldn’t tuck herself against him.  Her feet carried her quickly toward him. 

He held up a hand to slow her.  “Before ya kiss me I have to confess,” he said.  “I had to pay Tumbler a nickel to take Ranger home.”  Still he grinned, pleased with his accomplishment.

“He tried to weasel a nickel out of me, too.  Anyway, that’s alright; you did say it wouldn’t cost you a dime.”  Though she tried to muster a smile it was wan.  She sagged, heavy with guilt, feet now dragging as she crossed the roof to him.  “I’m sorry, Calvin,” she said.  “This was a wonderful surprise.”

“But…”

She hung her head.  “But I shouldn’t have demanded that you go to all this work.”

“You didn’t.  This was somethin’ I chose to do, because I love you.”

“I’m not sure you should.”

“Well, I am.”  He took her face in his gloved hands and raised it until their eyes met.  His expression was tender, adoring.  “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I believe you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.  “I love you, too.  You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.  After I read your valentine I kept thinkin’.  About you, and this whole thing, and about my parents.  And I remembered my father saying that without us, my mother an’ me, none of it would matter.  He said no success, no material things would make up for us not bein’ there.  I think…I think I forgot about that for a long time.”  His hands dropped, as did his gaze.  They were pensive when they returned to hers.  “I guess I thought that if I could make everythin’ the way it was before, if I got that same kind o’ life back, then it’d be like I hadn’t really lost them.  Now I know it’d be worse, because they still wouldn’t be here, an’ that life I’d worked so hard for would mean nothin’.

“Paulie,” he said, “I want to give you all o’ the best stuff, everything that you deserve.  But I don’t need any of it.  I don’t need presents so long as I have you.”

“Me either,” she said, shaking her head.  “I don’t need anything but you.”  She lifted her hands to grasp his lapels, pulling herself closer until she could feel his warm breath against her face.  All she needed was him: and for him to be healthy, fulfilled, content, and as loved as he deserved to be for the rest of his life.  If she could be the one to help him achieve those things, she would consider her life a success.  “Except for maybe a kiss.”

Laughing, he obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pauline’s note was inspired by Victorian puzzle purses.
> 
> JACK: I’D READ EVERY ROMANCE NOVEL IN THE WORLD IF IT WAS WRITTEN LIKE THIS!!!!!!!!


	142. Another Valentine... (18 February 1906)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

To David--

* * *

 

Dear Dave,

This was s’pposed to get to ya on Valentine’s Day, but the mail service in these parts is lackin’.

–Which is to say, nobody should ever trust me with important mail.  When I signed up for this paperless pape thing I didn’t know it was gonna come with RESPONSIBILITY!

Your pal,

JACK.

P.S. What kind o’ card did you give Judith?!?!?!??!?!!?!?!?


	143. ...and an Unexpected Reply (18 February 1906)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the Editor

Dear Judith, 

You’ve prob'ly figured out by now that Dave’s a real careful guy.  He wants to figure out every possible outcome an’ how he’s gonna handle ‘em all before actin’ on anythin’–and that’s great, just, sometimes he’s awful dumb.  (I’m dumb too, so I’m allowed to say it.)  And maybe it’s dumb to tell ya this, so if it backfires please don’t get mad at Dave or Sarah, 'cause they don’t know.  It’s just me an’ Dan an’ Nell holdin’ the fort down tonight, an’ when I asked ‘em whether I should go for it, Danny said “YEAH!” (and also “Cookie?!”) and Nell said “IF I WAS IN CHARGE THEY WOULDA BEEN MARRIED TEN YEARS AGO.”  Nell’s got some Opinions, but she’s always right.  She knows more about flirtin’ than Blink, even.

So: kid, I’m kinda dumb, but I ain’t stupid.  I’ve seen the way you an’ Dave look at each other.  It ain’t the way guys look at girls they don’t wanna keep–it’s bigger than that, better than that.  But it ain’t just the way he looks at his pals, either.  He looks at you like he’s never seen someone so important in his entire life.  An’ I know I don’t know you real well, so maybe I ain’t a good judge, but you look like he’s awful important to you too.

So, what I’m sayin’ is, if you’re waitin’ for some kind o’ sign, this is it.  Tell Davey to quit bein’ stupid an’ realize what you two got.  ‘Cause you’re real good together already, but things never go real well when somebody’s got secrets.  (You can trust me on that one.  It’s a long story.)  An’ if the secret’s that you’re both feelin’ like more than just pals, well, that’s one that ain’t too hard to get out in the open.  And I got a feelin’ things’ll get a lot better when you got it all cleared up.

And if it don’t, let me know.  I can come knock some sense into Dave if ya need me to.  And Nell’ll come, too.  Nobody can say no to a 1000-pound horse.  That’s just logic.

Your pal,

JACK.

P.S. “DAVE!” - That’s from Danny.  He’s sendin’ encouragement.


	144. 23 Kisses (19 February 1906)

By this point she should have known better than to expect Roman to show up alone anywhere there may have been food.  He hadn’t mentioned that Tumbler would be coming with them out to dinner but there he was at the door, sniffing the air hopefully as Roman kissed her. 

“ _Všechno nejlepší, miláčku_ ,” he said.  She caught his arm and wound it around her waist, slipping her hands around his back to hold him close.  How grateful she was that her sweetheart never shied away from holding her.  She pressed her face into his coat; these days he smelled less of stale bread, grease, and burnt coffee, and more of himself.  He squeezed her, kissed her hair, and murmured “Love you” in her ear before letting go.

“Happy birthday, Hana,” Tumbler said.  He offered neither a hug nor kisses; she was happy enough with his smile.

While she put on her boots and then her coat Roman made small talk with her parents.  Hana knew Mama was curious about how much more his new job paid than his old had; she’d managed to hold her tongue and not ask outright, though it had to have been nettling her.  Instead she turned her attention to Tumbler.  “You are staying?  You will do the dishes after,” she warned.  He grimaced, but even the threat of menial labor couldn’t scare him away when Mama’s barley soup smelled so tempting.

“We’ll be back later,” Roman said.  Then they headed down the hall, the stairs, the street to Mrs. Procházka’s.

As they walked, their gloved hands swinging between them, she stole glances at his profile.  Maybe it was silly to peek at him that way, as if she didn’t regularly touch every bit of his face with her fingertips and lips.  Sometimes, though, just looking at him in public felt more intimate than anything they did in private.  In public anyone who looked at her could see just how much she loved him.

His new job agreed with him.  It seemed to her that he walked taller since he’d started at the  _Sun_.  He was learning all sorts of things from what he read there, too, and it was a treat to see the light in his eyes as he talked about what new idea or happening had come across his desk that day.  Of course, she hadn’t been sympathetic when he’d come home to tell her how tired he was, and this after sitting at a desk all day.  “It’s harder work than ya think,” he’d groused.

“Today I scrubbed tile in the Vande Kerks’ guest bathrooms,” she returned, a bite to her words.  It hadn’t stopped him looking pathetic, but at least he’d quit trying to defend himself after that.

Now, when she glanced his way, she caught him smiling over at her.  A blush crept into her cheeks.  If anyone who passed could see just how much she loved him, the reverse was also true; but this was New York, and no one who passed was paying them any attention.

The restaurant’s proprietor met them at the door.  She gave Roman a nod, a fond smile on her face, before taking Hana’s hand and kissing both of her cheeks.  “ _Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám_ ,” she said, with that old-world solemnity that to anyone else might seem reticent, even insincere, in the face of more effusive American birthday wishes.  Hana understood it, though, and accepted the gesture and greeting in the spirit they were meant.  

“ _Ďakujem_.”

Mrs. Procházka tucked Hana’s hand through her arm and led them to  a table set toward the back of the restaurant, as far from both the front windows and the pastry case as it was possible to get.  A single candle was lit on the table, flanked by two small glasses of wine.  She shot a glance at Roman, who only gave a slight nod before pulling out her chair.  Anywhere else the wine would have been an unthinkable extravagance; here it probably came at a discount for a favorite customer.  Mrs. Procházka smiled benevolently at them, then returned to the kitchen.  

Roman lifted his glass; Hana followed suit.  Their eyes met above the candle’s flame as they touched their glasses together.  “ _Na zdraví_ ,” Roman said, more earnestly than a simple toast required.  She repeated the words and they both sipped.  Whether or not the wine was any good she couldn’t tell, but it warmed her.

Hana reached across the table and took his hand.  The rough places would always be there, a testament to his hand work, but his hands could never hurt her.  She hoped he knew the same was true of hers.  They held hands all through their beef soup with liver dumplings and while the indulgently smiling waitresses whisked away their empty bowls and replaced them with plates of baked chicken and potatoes.  Only then, when knives as well as forks had to be put into service, did they relinquish their hold.

Hana accepted a refill of her wine but Roman shook his head, requesting a glass of water instead.  In answer to the question posed by her little frown he waved and said, “It’s your birthday,  _miláčku_.  I ain’t about to tell ya how to enjoy it.”  The knowing wink he punctuated the statement with said he had ideas for how she might like to enjoy it, though.  The thought warmed her in a way the food and drink couldn’t.

At the end of their meal, though Hana was nearly stuffed, Mrs. Procházka herself brought out a small frosted cake.  It was chocolate, with delicate pink roses piped around the top.  This time when offered more wine Hana shook her head.  She already felt as tipsy as she wanted to be; any more alcohol and she’d likely curl up in Roman’s arms to fall asleep.  That sounded like an enjoyable way to celebrate her birthday, as did any of the other things she could do while curled up in his arms.  Enjoyable or not she pushed such thoughts away as best she could, digging into the cake; full as she was, though, they only managed to eat half of it between them.  A waitress wrapped the remainder up for Hana to take home, Roman paid the bill, or a portion thereof, and they slipped out into the evening together.

It was much too cold to linger outside, and they both had work the next day, so they headed back to the Kollárs’ building.  By unspoken agreement they made straight for the alcove under the stairs.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said.  “It was lovely.”

“You’re welcome.  I wish you’d’ve let me get you some kind o’ present, though.  Just takin’ you to dinner doesn’t seem like enough.”

She cocked her head to one side.  “What if I let you give me a kiss?” she suggested innocently.

He nodded, trying to keep the wolfish smile from his lips.  “That sounds like a good start.  But one’s prob’ly not gonna be enough.  I think you’ll need more to make it a real present.”

“How many will be enough?”  She bit her lip and fluttered her eyelashes up at him.  She was never sure when she was just pretending to flirt and when she was actually succeeding; in this case it made no difference, as the outcome would be the same.

“Twenty-three,” he decided, “one for every year.”  He raised a hand to stroke his thumb across her cheek, adding, “I’m so happy you’re here.”  She could say the same about him, and turned her head to kiss his thumb.

“Twenty-three kisses?  That will take a while.”  

“Better get comfortable, then.”  Someone had shoved an old trunk partway into the alcove; now he nudged the clasps with a toe to make sure they were secure before tipping the trunk up on one end.  “Have a seat.”

She eyed the trunk skeptically.  “I don’t think this will hold me.”

“Sure it will.”  By standing on her tiptoes and scooting backward with one hand bracing the trunk she was able to wriggle into a seated position.  Once she was seated Roman, who watched her maneuvering with great interest, stepped closer, settling a hand on her waist.  Her perch made her a little taller than him, a rare occurrence that she was sure she would enjoy.

From her makeshift seat she looked around the alcove.  “It will be nice when we have our own place, so we don’t have to hide in a junk room to kiss.”  It was a perfectly matter-of-fact and logical statement, she thought; but the muted groan he let out in response and the way he surged forward to kiss her hard proved he’d taken it otherwise.

“Not too much longer, Hanka, an’ that’s a good thing,” he said when they parted.  His pupils were wide in the dim light from the hallway outside, his hand heavy at her waist.  “’Cause I can’t wait ’til I can kiss you whenever I want.  Can’t wait for you to be my wife.”

He thought that with their marriage they’d be starting their own family, and she supposed that was true.  But he had family already: in Miles and Máša and Joe, of course, but also in Tumbler and Mrs. Procházka, and Calvin, Jack, and David.  She would remind him of all that—of all the kindnesses people had done him out of love for him—but later.  Now she was busy.

This time she kissed him, leaning forward to put a hand around the back of his neck and pull him to her.  He grinned against her lips, just as he always did whenever her desire for him got the better of her, and let her kiss him until she had to stop for air.

“That is two,” she panted.  “Do not lose count.”

“Two,” he repeated.  He kissed her nose and said, “Three”; the corner of her smiling mouth was number four.  Kiss number five landed squarely on her cheek, but six lingered on her neck, and she tilted her head back, her eyes closing and fingers tangling in his hair.  After that she lost track, trusting him to keep count, knowing that she wouldn’t much mind if he had to start all over again from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Dave an’ Judith,
> 
> YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YA ACTUALLY TELL PEOPLE YA LIKE ‘EM?!?!?!?!
> 
> (But thanks for gettin’ Skitts the job.)
> 
> Your pal WHO KNOWS A THING OR TWO ABOUT LOVE AN’ STUFF, SO YOU SHOULD TAKE MY ADVICE,
> 
> JACK.


	145. Confession (24 February 1906)

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Medda had asked, blithe and ignorant.  This was it: that, having considered her advice, Judith would send a valentine and then not hear from its intended recipient for days.  (Alright, she’d sent it the day after Valentine’s Day, and she’d neglected to put her name to it.  She hadn’t thought he would fault her for either of those things.)  Over the past few days nervous anticipation as she’d waited for some kind of reply, for him to show up smiling, had turned to despair as he hadn’t turned up at all.  Her appetite was gone; she spent as much time as possible in the workroom or the studio, anywhere that she couldn’t look out the window at every passing person, feeling sick all over again when it wasn’t him.  She wished she could be angry with Medda, but she had said there would be risk to any gesture she might make.  Judith was left to feel ever emptier.

Her changed mood did not escape notice at the studio.  Papa’s glances her way grew increasingly concerned; Mr. Till treated her with kid gloves.  Neither of them said anything, but for that matter, they hadn’t after Heitor, either.  That task had fallen to Mother. 

Whatever maternal advice or commiseration Judith hoped for did not materialize.  Instead one evening Mother knocked at her door with a face as pale as the letter she held.  

“Your grandmother is ill,” she said without preamble.  “She says it isn’t serious, but…”  It wasn’t like Mother to let a thought go unfinished like that.  If Grandmother Rodrigues had admitted to being in anything less than perfect health, she had to be ailing indeed.  She was no longer young, and winter by the sea could be brutally cold, chilling to the marrow.  Mother hadn’t seen her own mother in almost nine years now, for Judith’s sake.  She didn’t need to stay away any longer. 

“When are you leaving?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

Somehow, what Mother said next neither surprised nor bothered her: “Maybe you should think about coming, too.  You don’t have to see your grandmother, and you can come back whenever you like.  But we thought it might do you good to get away for a while.”

She thought of him everywhere, remembered the time they’d spent together in different places: pictured him leaning against the counter in her kitchen as she made coffee, holding the painting she’d done for him in the lobby of the studio, sitting next to her in the ballpark, at the theater, on the trolley.  For all that he—and Les, and Pauline—had gotten her out more, it seemed like the whole city belonged to him.  Just going somewhere else wouldn’t stop her thinking about him, but maybe it would give her space to think about him without feeling surrounded.

She didn’t ask whether Papa and Mr. Till would be fine without her.  Surely Mother and Papa had already discussed the possibility of her going along, and dear Mr. Till would make do without complaining, as always.  She nodded.  “I’ll go.”

“Really?”  The look of relief Mother wore made Judith wonder how long she’d been worried, and how Judith could have missed it.  “I was prepared to be much more persuasive.”  She gave a wan smile.

“It’s been long enough,” Judith said, “for both of us.  All of us.  Grandmother might…”  She wasn’t sure how to phrase it, wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted.  An apology?  Acceptance?  The chance to forgive?  She lifted one shoulder.  “She might want to get to know me.”

They exchanged smiles; Mother’s eyes were still a little pained.  “You’re well worth knowing, Judite,” she said quietly.  Then she drew herself upright.  “I’ll be glad to have you with me.  Our train leaves at nine.”  With that she left Judith to pack, for who knew how long.

The letter arrived the next morning.  The sight of it on the desk made her heart leap, then plummet; relief and disappointment alike filled her when she saw her name written in an unfamiliar hand, with a return address in Valhalla.  She sat down, slit the envelope open, and pulled out Jack’s letter.  

Jack on the page sounded very much like Jack in person, so the candor of his message should not have caught her so off-guard.  According to Jack, David’s brother-in-law and best friend, her interest was not unrequited.  Nor had it gone unnoticed, for that matter, a mortifying prospect.   _He looks at you_ , Jack wrote,  _like he’s never seen someone so important in his entire life_ ; upon reading those words she had to set the page on the desk and take a few deep breaths, lest the dizziness spin her into a faint.  When she felt steadier she finished reading.  Jack’s approval (and Danny’s, and Nell’s) and promise of support touched her.  She didn’t doubt his words: Jack wouldn’t be so cruel as to lie, especially not about something that would affect his family’s happiness.  And if Jack was right, and David did feel something for her, she couldn’t leave without talking to him.

She picked up the receiver and made a brief telephone call.  When she’d received the permission she needed, she hung up and wrote a short note.  She stepped out onto the sidewalk, called out to a newsboy she didn’t recognize, and gave him a nickel to deliver the note; then she went upstairs to pack up her camera.  Before she left she took down an album of photographs she’d taken.  Maybe Grandmother would like to see them.

Medda met her at the back entrance to Irving Hall.  When Judith had asked to borrow her office for a little while this morning she hadn’t asked any questions before agreeing; she didn’t now, only gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze before leaving her alone.  Judith had figured that if she ever wanted to be able to set foot in her own home or workplace again that it would be safer to have this conversation somewhere else.  She sprang up from the seat she’d been perched on when a burly man ushered David in and pulled the door shut behind him.

“What’s goin’ on, Dita?” David asked, glancing over his shoulder at the door before turning his attention to her.  He pulled off his cap and loosened the scarf around his neck, sharp eyes studying her as if trying to search out the reason for this unusual spot for a rendezvous.  “Why’re we meeting here?”

She took a deep breath.  “I have two things I have to tell you.”

“Alright.”  He looked from her face, undoubtedly pale, her brows drawn, to her hands.  She would rub the skin beneath her ring raw if she kept twisting it like she was.  He reached out and covered her hands with his; it stopped her fidgeting and her breath.  “What’s the matter?”

“I’m terrified,” she admitted.  “Once I say it there’s no going back.  Everything could change, and I don’t know if I could stand that.”

“You know you can tell me anythin’.  Now, or later, or whenever ya want.  I believe in you, remember?”

“I remember.”  She gently freed her hands from his and walked past him, around to the other side of the desk.  She’d hoped she would feel more secure here, more aloof and in control; all she felt was the ghost of his touch on her hands.

“How do people do this?” she muttered under her breath.  All at once was probably the easiest, if she could make her mouth cooperate.  She braced her fingertips on the desk, eyes fixed on the blotter there.  “I…like you.”

“I know.  You’ve said.”

Her head jerked up.  “Don’t be difficult,” she snapped.  Leave it to David to be obtuse when someone was pouring her heart out to him.  The spurt of annoyance almost displaced her self-consciousness.

Why couldn’t he just have understood?  Now she would have to spell it out in the most excruciating fashion.  There had to be some way that she could avoid any mention of  _romance_ ; no matter how much she liked him it still felt foolish to think that there was any hope for this, for them.  Still, she’d started the confession.  Now there was nothing to do but finish it.

“I know you sometimes think I like Les better, but the truth is I do like you best.  I like you best out of all of the men I know.  And not in a purely friendly way.”

“Oh.”  His face had been filling with color as she spoke; by the time she finished it was completely flushed.  “That’s good.”

“Is it?”  All of a sudden she felt as weak as a kitten.

“Yeah.  Yeah, it is.”  He looked down, reached out one finger to stroke a glass paperweight on Medda’s desk.  Then he raised his eyes to hers.  “I mean, that’s, uh, how I feel about you, too, so…”

“Really?  You could’ve said something.”

“I kind o’ thought you knew.”

She stared hard at him.  “I sent you a valentine and then heard nothing about it.  And you think I was supposed to know that you…”  She couldn’t say the words, and hoped that he would.  If he said them, maybe she could begin to believe it was possible.

“Hey, that’s not all my fault,” he protested.  “The card got sent to Valhalla somehow, and I just got it back.  And you didn’t even sign it.  It could’ve been from anybody.”

“Oh, yes, from one of your many admirers.  Like Louise at the ice cream parlor.”

He ignored her sarcasm.  “What was I supposed to do, assume it was from you an’ then suffer the disappointment if it turned out not to be?”

“You picked a fine time not to ask questions.  I’ve been worried sick thinking that you were avoiding me.”

“You were?”  When she nodded he apologized earnestly.  “I’m sorry, Dita.  I just got busy workin’ on a story.  I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

He was quiet for a moment, weighing his words.  She couldn’t begrudge him time to process his thoughts; she’d at least had the walk over here to plan out what she wanted to say.  It didn’t take him too long to go on.  “You said I could’ve said somethin’.  I would have, but I wasn’t sure how I was feeling.  Or I guess I knew how I was feelin’, but I didn’t know what it meant.  There’s never been anybody like you.  I thought we were friends, but I never wanted to spend as much time with any o’ my friends as I wanted— _want_  to spend with you.”  Their eyes met for a second of heat before her gaze flitted away.   

“I’ve never been so happy to have a job that lets me come an’ go as I please as I am since I met you.  An’ Denton—I probably oughta be embarrassed about the number o’ times he’s had to cover for me.  But I couldn’t stay away from you.

“I should’ve known my feelin’s weren’t just platonic.  Jack’s my best friend, but thinkin’ about him or bein’ around him doesn’t make my heart race.  Well,” he clarified, “except if we’re doin’ somethin’ stupid, or dangerous, or illegal.”

She shook her head.  “I can hardly believe this.  It seems too good to be true that you would…”

“Be attracted to you?”  Her pulse fluttered, as did her stomach.  That hadn’t been at all what she was thinking, but if those were the words he felt moved to supply, she wasn’t going to argue.  David went on, “Why wouldn’t I be?  I know you’ve never seen yourself workin’, but if you had you’d understand.  You’ve got this gracefulness when you move—”  The pink in his cheeks darkened; the rush of heat she felt was lower, in the pit of her belly.  “—and a way of lookin’ at things like you see them more deeply than anybody else does.  That’s why I thought you knew I liked ya.  I thought it was obvious every time you looked me in the eye.”

His belief in her perceptive power was far beyond her actual ability.  She supposed she noticed things that others might overlook, and had become adept at reading people’s features; those were skills she practiced every day at work.  There was little extraordinary about it.  But even knowing all that she looked across the desk at him and wondered what she might see now.

Though he wasn’t smiling David’s expression was far from unhappy.  One corner of his mouth twitched, as if a smile was lurking, awaiting the right moment to appear.  His smooth-shaven cheeks were rosier than usual, the youthful flush there balanced by his dark eyebrows.  The curl that sometimes broke free from its fellows to rest on his forehead remained obediently in place for the time being, and for that she was glad; when left to roam the curl was altogether too endearing.  From his hair her eyes traveled down his jawline— _resolute_  was one way to describe it, though  _stubborn_  might do just as well—to his lips, chapped by the cold, and the dark pinprick of a beauty mark just above them.  Her gaze lingered on that part of his face just a second too long, until the bob of his Adam’s apple broke her concentration.  Then, at last, she let her eyes travel up to his.

They were, in most respects, rather unremarkable.  To be honest, they sat a little too close together for the whole face to be perfectly proportional; this detail was easily forgiven, though, when one saw their color.  Comparisons with the sea or the sky or precious gems she would leave to the poets.  All she knew was that they were soft, tender in a way she’d hardly thought to imagine.  His expression was one of a man looking at something he thought was worth keeping; she just had a hard time believing that was her.  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was sure about this—about her, about them—until she remembered Medda’s advice about trust.  Judith had decided to trust her own feelings; it was only fair to trust his, too.

“Dita.  Will you come over here, please?”  He smiled, though it looked a little unsure, and there was a plaintive note to his next words: “You don’t have to stay away.”

Rounding the desk seemed to take several lifetimes.  As she neared he stuck an arm out at hip level, extending his hand—one of those hands she’d lately spent so much time contemplating.  Still moving slowly she reached out.

They’d touched before in incidental brushes, meaningless contact.  This was the first time she’d had the opportunity to fulfill her longing to touch someone.  Such a chance might never come again; she’d be a fool to pass it up.  She slid her hand into his, fitting her fingers into the spaces between his.  There was a soft noise from low in his throat and she looked up to see his eyes wide.  As she watched that tentative smile grew more assured, more pleased.  He tightened his grip, bringing their palms flush; in so doing his fingertips moved across the back of her hand and sent a shiver all the way up her arm and straight to her hammering heart.  When his eyes flicked down to her mouth she realized she was smiling. 

David grinned.  “Hey.”

“Hey.”  She gave his hand an experimental squeeze, in response to which his grin widened.  She would have been happy to stand there longer, holding David’s hand and smiling at him, but sooner or later Medda would need her office back. 

He seemed to have the same idea.  “Now let me guess.  The other thing ya had to tell me was that since ya like me so much you’ll be happy to make me the good coffee anytime I want.”  His teasing was familiar and comfortable, and her pulse calmed.

“I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth, Mr. Jacobs,” she said.  She gently loosed her hand from his and crossed her arms over her chest.  “And I don’t know where you got the impression that I liked you that much.”

“Best of all the men you know.”

“I don’t know that many men.”  He laughed quietly.  “You’re not going to forget I said that anytime soon, are you?”

He shook his head.  “Never.”  The mirth faded to something almost too fond. 

“I’m going to Newport tomorrow,” she blurted.

“Newport.  Your grandmother…?”

“Isn’t well.  I don’t know how sick she is.  Mother’s going up to see her and asked if would go with her.  She thought it might be good for me to get away for a while.”

His forehead creased with worry.  “Get away from what?”

She sent him a look equal parts unimpressed and embarrassed.  “I’ve been…pining,” she said, sounding disgusted with herself, “pretty badly.”

“Oh, yeah?”  His expression lightened, and she watched him try to contain a proud grin.  “Over who?”

“Over someone who doesn’t answer his mail,” she shot back.  “And no, I’m not about to forget that anytime soon.”

“I’m sorry!” he laughed.  “I’m sorry.”  He reached for her, catching hold of her forearm; she let him tug her arm free of its obstinate clench.  She thought he might take her hand again, but he kept his where it was, halfway between her elbow and her wrist.  Bashfully he asked, “Are ya still pining?”

“Not as much anymore.”  They shared giddy smiles once again. 

“Okay.  You’re leavin’ tomorrow.  When’ll you be back?”

She shrugged.  “It depends on how she’s feeling.  And how she feels about me,” she muttered.

He put his other hand on her upper arm, squeezing lightly.  “You’re artistic, you think fast, you’re generous an’ funny an’ you keep me on my toes.  I know she’s your grandmother,” he said, jaw tightening and brows lowering, “but if she thinks you’re anything less than—than wonderful, then she’s wrong an’ she doesn’t deserve to have you around.”

“Thank you.  I think that’s what I needed to hear most of all.  Not that you like me—”

“A lot.”  His eyes darted over her face before he repeated, “A lot,” his voice gone hoarse.

She blushed.  “ —not that I mind you saying it.  But that you believe in me.  That I still have worth, even if I failed her.”

“ _She_  failed  _you_.  Not the other way around.  Don’t forget that.  Promise me ya won’t.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”  When he smiled her eyes moved of their own avail to his mouth.  It had to be too soon, but she wanted so to kiss him.  There was so much they still hadn’t said, so much she wasn’t sure about.  Just because they were something other than friends didn’t mean they were sweethearts yet; what would she call him when—if, she amended, with lingering bitterness—anyone asked about her love life?  More likely she would bring him up in conversation herself; talking about him had become second nature by now.  Should it be “my young man”?  “My gentleman friend”?  No matter what she intended to say it would probably come out as “my friend,” with a significant pause between the two words that would do all the explaining for her.  She supposed they’d figure things out when she got back.  In the meantime she wet her lips with her tongue; however slight, the movement drew his attention.

“Wish ya weren’t goin’,” he murmured.  “I understand why you are, an’ I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t, but I like havin’ ya close by.”  By way of proof he slid his hand down her sleeve to twine their fingers together again.  “I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t let any waitresses flirt with you while I’m gone.”

He rolled his eyes, then joked, “I can’t help it if I’m irresistible.”

“I don’t know how I managed to hold out this long against your charm,” she said, deadpan, and he laughed.

“I’m glad I wore ya down.”

“Like sandpaper.”  To forestall any pouting she gave him the sweetest smile she could.  That seemed to appease him; but then she softened further, telling him, “I’ll miss you, too.  I think it’s for the best that I’m going—at least I hope it is—but I wish our timing were a little better.”  She sighed.

“Think of it this way,” he said, “by the time you get home, I’ll have our first date all planned out.”

She let out a loud gasp, bringing a hand to her heart.  “You mean it won’t be for coffee?”

David narrowed his eyes.  “Ha,” he said flatly, and her heart soared.  They were still themselves, still Davey and Dita; that hadn’t changed.  But her world had changed with the touch of his hand, and she knew for better or worse she would never be the same again.  

“Is there anythin’ I can do?” he asked.  “Before you go, or while you’re gone?”

She smiled—shyly at first, then with a mischievous tilt to her lips.  “You can write.”


End file.
